The One at the End
by BlueSkyScribe
Summary: Knock Out never had the best role models. A pre-war story set in Vos.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

By the third day, Grit had given them nicknames: Skyguy, the blue one with the smarmy face whose condescending tone floated across the plaza, even when Grit was too far away to decipher his words; Wingnut, who wore a perpetual sneer and lofted her wings so high during confrontations that they seemed in danger of crossing; Dingbat, a burly flier who accidentally-on-purpose left scratches and nicks on bots with his sharp claws when he was 'escorting' them away from 'their' table; and the one on the end.

Grit called the one on the end Eye Candy, thinking it a fitting name for a bot who seemed to have no purpose or ambition besides polishing his already finely polished chassis. Once in a while one of the bots, usually Skyguy or Wingnut, would summon him to their side and slide an arm around his waist.

Grit was no prude; his youth had been filled with stolen kisses, and far more. But the odd thing was that they never _did_ anything after calling Eye Candy over, it never escalated into kissing or a playful, inappropriate squeeze. They would just pull him close and go on talking while Eye Candy either smirked or (more often) continued carefully rubbing a polishing cloth over his gleaming wings.

If Eye Candy cared that his friends were treating him like a living ornament he gave no indication. And he always sat at the end of the table. Grit began to wonder if he was a real member of the clique.

"Is that guy a prostitute or what?" he asked the bot tending the neighboring stall.

She stopped stirring her warmed energon to give him a stiff look.

"In _our_ city-state," she said, "mecha take care of themselves because they have _standards,_ not because they're whores."

Only then did she direct her gaze to the bot in question.

"Oh, _that_ lot. They're medical students. You can see the symbol on their wings." Then, apparently feeling she had been too informative towards The Enemy, she added loftily, "The glory of Vos will ride on their wings, Decepticon."

Grit bit his glossa and busied himself with rearranging his pamphlets. Across the plaza the future glory of Vos admired his reflection in his arm plating.

* * *

As far as Grit could tell, there was nothing special about the table Skyguy's clique had staked out as their own personal property. It wasn't any nearer to the park than any of the others and while it had a nice view of the drop-off (which Grit preferred to stay well away from), so did many other tables. Nevertheless, the clique protected their claim as though it was made of solid crystal instead of weathered, pitted metal.

Today they were squabbling with another posse of medical students, despite the fact that there were many unoccupied tables that either group could have settled at. The leader of the other clique, an orange Seeker, was snipping back and forth with Skyguy; meanwhile Dingbat was trying to wrestle a chair out of the hands of a yellow Seeker who was staring daggers at him. Eye Candy was the only member of either group who seemed unaffected, standing back from the action as he (of course) polished his chassis.

It was all so stupid and meaningless that Grit wished he had a recorder; this was a great example of the grasping and selfish behavior of the upper castes. Not that he'd had great luck selling the Decepticon cause to the Vosian lower castes, he had to admit.

In this case, the upper caste were both the winners and the losers. The orange Seeker's group opened up a bag of flavored energon balls and started hurling them with deadly accuracy. Skyguy's gang had no chance against this barrage of artillery. The orange Seeker and his cronies whooped in triumph, jumping on the table and jeering at their enemies as they fled.

The defeated Seekers gathered around a lamp post, shaken and humiliated. Eye Candy was frantically scraping energon off his top-coat and Skyguy's head was as low as his wings as he wiped jellied energon out of his eye.

He lifted his head and met Grit's optics from halfway across the plaza. Grit let his gaze drift, but it was too late. With a curt gesture, Skyguy was leading his entire gang over to his stall, his wings hiking up with every step.

"Hello stranger," Skyguy said, a smile on his face and malice in his eyes.

"Hello," Grit said. After years in construction he couldn't help the gruffness of his voice but he did his best to make his tone polite. "Fair flying."

"Fair flying," Skyguy returned the traditional Vosian greeting. He stared at Grit's shoulder wheels in exaggerated shock. "Except, oh dear, I don't think filthy groundpounders like you _can_ fly."

Grit had heard a lot worse, both before and after joining the Decepticon cause. And he wasn't here to pick fights with stupid younglings.

"Nope, sure can't," he said blandly.

"Dirt-kisser," Skyguy spat, annoyed by his lack of reaction. "Moronic pavement-fragger." Wingnut and Dingbat nudged each other and snickered, while Eye Candy merely frowned at a stain on his arm.

"You want a brochure?" Grit asked as though he hadn't heard him. "'Fraid I don't have any food to sell ya."

The mention of food did not go over well with the energon-splattered medical students. Even Eye Candy stopped cleaning himself long enough to glare at him.

Wingnut did lean close to study brochure. "'The Decepticon Cause and You' . . . He's one of those _caste rebels!"_

"If that's what you want to call people who believe in freedom, then sure," Grit said.

"Freedom to steal from your betters," Dingbat growled, knocking the brochure stand over with a swipe of his massive arm, then kicked over the folding table for good measure. Grit instinctively leaped backwards as the equipment clattered against the paving stones and brochures fluttered to the ground.

"Now what's all this?" A maroon jet who had been buying lunch at a nearby stall began striding over with a tip-tap of narrow pedes.

"Nice one, _moron,"_ Skyguy growled at Dingbat as he darted away.

Or started to. The maroon Seeker crossed his arms, wings flaring to clearly display the medical symbol on them—a more ornate version than the students wore. "Anyone who runs is getting a black mark," he said in a stern voice.

Whatever 'a black mark' was, it brought the students in line. Skyguy's wings drooped as he shuffled back to his friends. They all began speaking at once.

"It was an accident, professor!"

"Flashlift did it, not me!"

"This groundpounder came here to make trouble—"

Dingbat must have been truly dim to make the last remark; the professor drew himself up, visibly offended.

"Detention! All of you! For a week! You are _medics_ , not dockworkers, and you will comport yourselves accordingly!"

"Yes, sir," they chorused miserably. Skyguy spared a murderous look for Dingbat.

"Now pick up this bot's belongings. How dare you leave a visitor with such a _crass_ impression of our glorious city."

"But he's—" Skyguy stopped, knowing he was on thin ice, but too outraged to keep silence. "I mean, look at these!" He grabbed up a handful of brochures. "'Decepticonism: Beyond Your Function'! 'Change Your Alt Mode, Change Your Future'! 'The Case for a Casteless Society'! He's . . . he's sowing dissent!"

"The only dissent I am hearing is from you, Lifeflight, and I must say it doesn't impress me very much. Medics treat all manner of bots—ones they agree with and ones they don't. Leave the politics to the Winglord and his court; it is not our business to have opinions. Besides, this mech is from far away. Other city-states have, _ahem,_ social problems that Vos does not. Now get to work."

"Thanks," Grit said, letting the professor pull him off to the side as Eye Candy and Dingbat lifted the table onto its legs and the other two students scrambled for brochures. "It's not that big of a deal, though. I can always print more. Name's Grit, by the way."

"Airwave, professor of anatomy. And it's the principle of the thing. We expect our students to act well-mannered and courteous at all times, to all bots. Especially foreigners."

Grit had been neither well-mannered nor courteous at that age, but he didn't think he'd been such a brat as Skyguy either. "That's a good philosophy."

"So you're with the Decepticons." Airwave's smile, though a little patronizing, seemed meant to be genuinely kind. "Have you had many takers of your little brochures?"

"Not really."

"Mm, that's what I thought. I'm sure your, ah, perspective has a lot of validity in—Praxus?"

"Yeah, I'm from Praxus."

"As I thought. But now you're here. And Vosians love Vos."

Grit couldn't help but bristle. "Yeah, well, I love Praxus."

"Of course, of course. I didn't mean to imply otherwise." The professor seemed momentarily flustered, then thoughtful. "Vosians love Vos as it is, I should have said. Now, you will certainly hear _complaints_. But that, too, is because it's an activity Vosians enjoy. Not a cry for change."

Grit remained silent. He wanted to say Airwave was wrong. That the lower castes living in dark canyons at the base of the shining buildings hungered for change and freedom. But the laborers he'd hoped to reach had called him a lot worse things than 'groundpounder', just for having a table set up with a few pamphlets. And previous Decepticon operatives who'd been to Vos had reported the same thing. Vosians would complain about their city right up to the point where you agreed with them, and then it was 'how dare you.'

"Well, you might be right," he said finally. "But I'm here so I might as well try."

"Of course," Airwave said. "And I wish you luck." He patted Grit's shoulder—a gesture too familiar for the construction vehicle's taste, but he didn't say anything—and looked over at his students. Having finished setting up the table and brochures, they were now awkwardly waiting for approval. Airwave beamed. "Ah, this is more like it. Do you have something to tell our visitor?"

"Sorry," the students chorused half-heartedly.

"Good, good." Airwave gave them a satisfied smile before turning back towards Grit. "Don't judge them too harshly. They'll make fine medics one day."

"I'm sure they will."

"The glory of Vos will ride on their wings."

There didn't seem to be anything he could say about that. So he didn't.

* * *

The orange Seeker and his gang enjoyed their mastery of the table the next day. They sat on it. They stood on it. They strutted around it.

They had finally settled down and spread their books and datapads across it when Eye Candy arrived.

He hung back at the edge of the plaza, eyes fixed on the table where Orangey and his three friends were studying.

One of the members of Orangey's clique, a slim silver and blue jet, stepped away from the table to stand in line at a food stall. That seemed to be what Eye Candy had been waiting for. He straightened up, angled his wings upward, and marched across the plaza.

The purple Seeker at the table noticed his approach and nudged Orangey, pointing. With tensely hiked wings, Orangey watched Eye Candy's approach. But Eye Candy seemed more conciliatory than combative. He leaned down to say something, letting his hand rest on the table; Orangey swatted it away. Eye Candy took a step back, and this time held his hands behind his back in a coquettish pose as he leaned in, his body language flirtatious. Orangey's wings lowered and his smile grew. He shoved one of his friends aside and patted the space beside him. But Eye Candy shook his head and, also smiling, settled at the end of the bench.

 _I guess he made some new friends,_ Grit thought as he watched the purple bot next to Eye Candy wrap a casual arm around his shoulder which soon slid down to his waist. _Bet there's gonna be fireworks when his old friends see this._

As it turned out, the fireworks were ignited sooner than that. When he fourth member of Orangey's crew returned with tray of flavored drinks he took one look at the red jet cuddling up to his clique and threw a cup of iced energon in Eye Candy's face.

Eye Candy leapt up, both fury and energon in his eyes, and leapt at him. They rolled around on the pavement, shouting and punching. The other three jets gleefully leapt to their feet to cheer on the violence.

 _Maybe Vosians aren't so different after all._ Grit had gotten into plenty of brawls when he was a hot-headed kid.

Neither Eye Candy nor Silver-Blue had the durability that a young Praxian construction-bot would have had, but they flailed at each other determinedly. Grit's bet was on Eye Candy who, though slender, was slightly larger and bulkier than his even skinnier opponent.

Orangey and his cohorts, Yellow and Purple, whispered together as Eye Candy managed to pin down Silver-Blue by sitting on his chest. Both of them were panting as the red jet gave Silver-Blue a final, awkward shove to his shoulders to assert his victory. Eye Candy stood, shaky but triumphant.

And Orangey and the other two piled on him, swinging.

Eye Candy shrieked, arms raised in front of his face as he was knocked off his feet. His wings scraped on the pavement as he scooted back with his legs, trying to put distance between himself and his attackers. He was too slow. The yellow Seeker grabbed him by his neck well and hauled him to his feet, only to shove him back down again.

Grit frowned. Three on one. Not a fair fight.

He looked around for a teacher, a police officer, anyone. A black and green jet was doing loops of the park but she didn't deviate course. A green Seeker did nothing more than glance towards the racket while he ate his dinner.

"Hey." Grit leaned over towards his neighbor, the warmed energon seller. "Isn't anyone gonna stop that?"

"Stop what?"

"Are you fragging with me?"

Her optics darted towards the fight, then away from it. "It's just childish play."

 _"Play?"_ Grit watched Purple hook his arms under Eye Candy's elbows from behind, holding him for his friends to wail on. Silver-Blue sat on his heels off to the side, smirking. "Is the glory of Vos gonna ride on that newspark once his wings are ripped off?"

"They wouldn't—" She took a quick in-vent. "He'll be fine. It's just their way. It's best not to interfere with the higher castes. It leads to trouble."

Eye Candy let out a wail as Orangey dug his claws into his chest and raked down.

Grit decided. He was always in trouble anyway.

"Hey, you!" He stalked towards the group. As one, the Seekers' heads swiveled towards him. Orangey sneered and flared his wings, but Grit didn't give him a chance to speak. "Yeah, you!" He glared at Eye Candy. "Where were you, ya brat? Professor Airwave told you to haul my gear for your detention, yeah? Were you gonna do that or were you too busy mouthing off again? Do I need to call him up and get him involved again?"

At the mention of Airwave, the purple Seeker loosened his hold on Eye Candy's arms and at the suggestion that Grit would _get him involved again,_ he let go completely, cringing away. Eye Candy fell to his knees, but immediately pushed himself up with his hands, wiping the energon out of his optics as he stood.

"I'll . . . I'll carry the stuff."

"Good." Grit turned his back on the other Seekers, who exchanged uncertain glances before drifting away. Back, of course, to their table.

Eye Candy followed Grit, who pretended not to notice him wiping not only energon but also tears from his eyes. "You didn't have to do that," the youngster muttered.

"How else was I gonna get someone to carry my junk?" Grit bought a cube of warmed energon from the bot next door. She actually gave him a smile as she handed him the drink, which was a first.

"Here. Drink this and clean yourself up."

"I _know_ to clean myself up. I'm a medic. Almost."

"Terrific." Grit said.

As Eye Candy wiped the grime and energon off his frame, Grit was glad to see most of his damage was cosmetic—dents and shallow cuts, and a lot of paint gouged off. Maybe the med students purposely went for the non-vitals or maybe they just really sucked at fighting.

Eye Candy did not seem to share his relief; he frowned down at his chassis as he rubbed disinfectant into the deep scratches. Grit had an uncomfortable notion that he was trying not to cry again.

"Where are your buddies? Skyg— The sky blue guy and all them?"

"In detention," Eye Candy mumbled.

"But you snuck out?"

"No. I don't have it anymore."

"Why not?"

Eye Candy stopped rubbing the dirt off his sleek red leg long enough to give an elegant shrug. "I just don't," he said vaguely.

"Huh." Grit looked across the plaza. Orangey and his gang were all watching. And waiting. Grit started tapping the brochures into neat piles and putting elastic bands around them. It was a little early to close up shop, but he hadn't been attracting any recruits anyway. "Well, once you're done cleaning yourself off you can help me fold up the table."

"Yeah, okay."

"And maybe steer clear of that orange guy from now on."

"You think?!" Eye Candy threw down the rag he'd been cleaning himself with. "Stupid Lunarwing! RRRGH, I _hate_ him!"

"That the orange one?"

"Of course not, that's Sunstroke. And I had him eating out of my servo. Until _Lunarwing_ came along."

"The blue guy who threw energon in your face?"

"Yeah. Thinks he's so _special."_

"He was the only one to fight you fair, though. One on one."

Eye Candy glowered at him. "You don't know anything. You're just a stupid grounder."

Grit didn't say anything, just finished packing the brochures away. Eye Candy huffed out a vent and tipped the table over, fumbling to close the legs. It was clear he'd never had to do such a thing in his life.

"I'm sorry," he said in a tremulous voice. "I'm grateful, really, and you're not stupid, probably. It's just . . . Lunarwing made a fool out of me and everyone's going to see _this—"_ He touched the gouged paint. "—and _know."_

"Sunstorm was the one who scratched you up."

"Because of Lunarwing! They chose him over _me!"_ Eye Candy clenched his fists. Then he sighed, wings drooping as he went back to fiddling half-heartedly with the table. Grit reached past him to fold down the legs.

"Come on, kid."

"Do I really have to _carry_ things?"

"Yeah."

"Fiiine."


	2. Chapter 2

Most Vosians used the airways, the aerial streets marked with beacons to indicate the lanes and direction of traffic flow. But they were not an option for Grit, who turned into a backhoe. He used the public escalators.

"We're going down _there?_ On _those?"_ Eye Candy pulled the table in front of himself like a shield.

"Yeah."

"They're _rusty._ Can't I use the airways and meet you at the bottom?"

"Don't be a wuss. Come on." Wouldn't hurt this pampered youngling to see there were bigger problems than who was sitting with who on the playground.

"I thought the stairs moved." Eye Candy was edging down the steps one at a time, awkwardly clutching the table under one arm while he gripped the railing so hard his joints squeaked.

"They broke. Centuries ago, looks like."

"Well, someone should fix them." Eye Candy cautiously descended another step, tapping it with his toe before gingerly putting his weight onto it.

Grit was already regretting his decision to bring him along. This was going to take forever. The kid had seen the stairs and smelled their stink, that was enough, right?

"Hey, I was kidding about going down. You can go home."

"I don't want to. Sunstroke's still up there. And . . . maybe there's a body-shop down there that can fix my paint before anyone sees."

Grit doubted it, but he wasn't invested enough to argue the point. "At least give me the table."

Eye Candy did so, looking relieved. Grit gave him the suitcase full of pamphlets instead.

"Wait," the youngster said. He took out a small canister of a black, tar-like substance and rubbed it over the medical symbols on his wings. "We do this when we sneak out," he explained.

Grit looked at Eye Candy's wings, gleaming except for a prominent smudge in the center of each. "Not real subtle."

"Well, medics aren't the only caste with professional markings. Maybe I'm military or something. _They_ don't know. All that matters is that no one can prove anything."

Grit supposed that was true for a lot of things in life.

* * *

Traffic picked up the farther down they went. Low-caste jets with wing injuries, Vosian grounders (who tended to be curvy), foreign grounders (who tended to be blocky), and a smattering of exercise fanatics passed them, up and down. The jets and native grounders gave Grit suspicious looks as he heaved the folding table down the stairs, closely followed by a shiny Seeker. But he felt they were all united in their hatred of the joggers, so that was something.

The lower they went, the more blatantly incongruous Eye Candy became. The looks he got were careful, but Grit could sense a tension behind some of them, like a trap waiting to be sprung. He'd felt that himself at Decepticon rallies, the crowd's collective rage at the injustices crushing them down, hungry for justice. And other looks aimed at Eye Candy held a different kind of hunger.

"Maybe you oughta go back up."

"This again? We haven't seen anything interesting yet."

"This isn't a sightseeing tour. We're not going anywhere interesting. Just back to my hotel."

Eye Candy gave him a sideways glance at that, so Grit added gruffly, "To drop off this stuff, so you can get back to your friends before they worry."

 _"They_ won't worry." Eye Candy muttered. Then added loudly and boastfully, "Because they know I can take care of myself."

"Uh huh."

Eye Candy pursed his lips, offended by Grit's skepticism. "I've been down here before, _actually."_

"No you haven't."

"I have too!"

"Doing a little recreational work as a dockhand?"

"No. Hitting the bars."

"Don't you have bars up there?" Grit jerked his thumb upward.

"Sure. But . . ."

"But what."

"I wanted to see the ones down below. I was curious." He frowned. "Anyway, I wanted to make sure I didn't run into stupid _Lunarwing."_

"Why do you hate that guy so much?"

"Lunarwing," Eye Candy said, his expression deadly serious, "is my mortal enemy."

"Wow. Why's that?"

"Because I'm the most beautiful Seeker in school, and he's _second_ most beautiful. He's jealous."

"Hm."

"He transferred here last quarter." Eye Candy scowled down the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You should have seen him. Strutting around the campus, all polished up, putting on this _act,_ like 'Oh, do you really think _I'm_ attractive? _Moi?_ With my narrow waist and my tall, tall heels and these intricate decals on my long, slender wings?' That's right," Eye Candy spat, "DECALS. He pretends they're hand-painted but they're not, _the faker!"_

"Wow. Too bad he's so jealous."

"I know! And then, THEN he started sparing with every trine he could! Totally copying me! I hate him!"

"Sparing? You mean sparring?"

"No, sparing. A spare is like . . . someone you're not as close to as your trine, but you call them if one of your trine members gets sick and can't fly or whatever. Like an extra in air hockey." He paused. "I guess you aren't familiar with air hockey."

"I get the idea."

"Anyway, I was on great terms with all these trines and then suddenly a bunch of them dumped me for this _fragging newbie._ I mean, I don't _care."_ He gave a scornful laugh. "Whatever. If Sunstroke wanted to hang out with precious flavor-of-the-month _Lunarwing_ instead of me, all he had to do was say so. _I_ wasn't the one begging _him_ to trine, was I? But nooo! One minute he's all, 'Come sit next to me and be my trinemate, pat pat pat' and the next—"

"Aren't you kids a little young to be forming these . . . trines?" Grit had heard of trines. They sounded like a big commitment.

But Eye Candy just shrugged. "They're not, like, _forever_ trines. I know a guy who's been in six this year already."

"Wow."

"Yeah . . . he's bad at relationships."

Grit glanced at the scratches down Eye Candy's chest and wondered if he thought he was good at relationships. "So a trine can only have one spare."

"Oh no, they can have more than one. But everyone knows they have to choose between me and Lunarwing."

"Because you're mortal enemies."

"Right."

Many bots would have told the youngster to befriend Lunarwing. But Grit felt that animosities had to run their course. Even the stupid ones. And he _had_ seen Lunarwing throw a cube of energon in Eye Candy's face. He wouldn't have put up with that slag, why should Eye Candy?

"Does choosing between the two of you always involve someone up getting beaten up? Seems rough."

Eye Candy shook his head. "That was just Sunstroke being an aft. He could've just said no."

"So maybe you aren't missing out on much by not having his company."

"I don't care about _him,_ but . . ." His fingers tightened around the handle of the suitcase. "People will laugh at me. And drop me."

"Good way to find out who your real friends are."

Eye Candy didn't say anything to that. He looked down at the suitcase and switched hands again.

"You gonna let other people decide what you're worth your whole life?" Grit asked.

"No," Eye Candy said without conviction.

"If you were a Decepticon, you'd be tougher. Care more about your own goals than what other people think of you."

"If I were a Decepticon I'd be trying to get the exact job I already have, so what would be the point?" Eye Candy grumbled. "Are we ever going to reach your floor or are we just going down till the end of time?"

"Three more flights."

"Terrific."

* * *

A sickly yellow fog billowed along the streets this far down. This sub-level had been called "the Thresh" for so long that no one could remember the origin of the name. Certainly the area had no agriculture to speak of. Residential quarters and cheap hotels crowded around a smelting plant that roared night and day, layering the area with smoke and the unpleasant odor of burning metal.

"It stinks," Eye Candy complained. The lower levels sat in perpetual shadows, except a brief glimpse of the sun at noonday. But even far, far above in Liftwing Memorial Plaza, on the edge of the medical university, the sun would be setting. "My feet hurt."

"The hotel's not far."

Eye Candy stayed quiet for a bit, studying the shops pressed up against the edge of the street and stiffly avoiding eye contact with fellow Vosians. Ground traffic seemed to unnerve him the most. Grit could understand that. The sidewalk and the narrow strip of paved road were so close together that their chassis vibrated every time a dented up truck or car whipped by. One car almost clipped Eye Candy's wing.

"How do you get up there every day without being run over? You should stay somewhere nicer."

"This is what I can afford."

"Well . . . most of Vos isn't like this," Eye Candy said, frowning at the graffiti scrawled across an abandoned building. "Just so you know. It's a nice city."

Grit didn't answer.

"Most people are proud to live here," Eye Candy persisted. "We have a rich history."

"Good for you. Shut up a minute."

Someone was following them. Grit pretended the table was slipping from his grip and took a glance over his shoulder as he fussed with it. One hulking jet and two construction vehicles. Their expressions were not friendly.

"Hey kid. You fast in the air?"

"Yeah . . ." he muttered, annoyed at being told to shut up.

"Faster than that guy?" Grit gestured slightly with his head.

"What guy—oh _Primus!"_

"Shhh. Keep walkin'." Grit began walking again, not too fast. "Transform and fly outta here. Loop around the block or something. You know your way back?"

"Um, yes. But. I can't transform and carry the suitcase."

"I'll carry the suitcase the rest of the way."

"Oh . . . right. Well . . . thank you." He hesitated, then gave an embarrassed shrug. "Bye." And with that he transformed and was off like a shot.

His alt mode was sleek, shiny, and without a doubt fast. His thrusters roared as he blasted ahead, rounding the corner within seconds. Grit turned and braced himself, ready to serve as a roadblock if anyone tried to pursue Eye Candy. But the three burly bots met his optics with a grim stare, quickening their pace but not running.

Now that they were closer, Grit could see that one of the grounders had the bucket of a bulldozer forming her shoulder blades while the other was some kind of massive drill. The flyer . . . well, Grit was not well-versed in identifying the different kind of flyer. But from his bulk and faded paint of this one, this was no med student.

"Whaddaya want?" Grit growled, staring right back at them.

The jet's optics narrowed. "What're _you_ doing down here?"

"Walking. You got a problem with that?"

"Maybe I do, depending on who's taking the steps."

"He's the one from the other day, for sure," the drill cut in. He reached for the suitcase that Eye Candy had dropped. Grit grabbed it and pulled it back. Drill-Head glared at him, now addressing him directly. "You had your little _table_ and your little _papers_ by the smelting factory."

"So what?"

"So first you try to rile everyone up and then you bring some shiny upper-caste slagger to spy on us? Is that your game?"

"That wasn't a spy, it was just a bratty youngling. Thought it would do him some good to do some physical labor for once in his life. Show him how the other half lives."

For a moment he thought he had them convinced, but then the jet scowled. "Take him slumming, in other words. Show him where he's gonna end up if he doesn't keep his snooty head in his snooty books."

"That's not what I—"

"What right do you have to look down on us?"

"I'm not looking down on you! Frag, I'm trying to help you!"

"A Kaonite, trying to help. Good one, barbarian," the bulldozer rumbled, her voice a deep thrum. "Guess what. The boss cut our breaks out thanks to your little show-and-tell. Didn't want anyone getting any ideas. So thanks for the 'help', aft."

"Huh, almost sounds like your _boss_ is the aft, not me. Almost sounds like he's afraid you'll start standing up for yourselves. And just so ya know, I'm from Praxus not Kaon."

"Who cares?" the jet broke in. "Praxus is just as bad. You live in a _dump_ and you roam around sowing discontent, trying to drag other cities down to your level."

"Yeah, that's right, I gotta _import_ discontent 'cause I'll bet it's real fun living in this smog pit."

All three of the Vosians bristled. "Watch your mouth, Prax- _aft_ -ian!" Drill-Head snarled.

"Or what? You're gonna beat me up? Three against one. Is everyone in this city a coward?"

"I don't need help to shut your mouth!" Drill-Head pushed right up into Grit's face. "The glory of Vos rides on my wings!"

"You don't HAVE wings!"

An ugly expression contorted Drill-Head's face, but Grit only caught a brief glimpse of it before a fist slammed into his jaw. He swung back, connecting with Drill-Head's shoulder and sending him stumbling back a step. But now the bulldozer was charging in, head lowered as she slammed it into Grit's stomach. If Drill-Head had any objections to her jumping in, Grit didn't hear them.

Grit rolled out of the way as she slammed a massive foot down where his head had been, coming dangerously close to the aerial lane of the street—or from Grit's perspective, the steep drop-off.

He scrambled up and back. Unfortunately this brought him in range of Drill-Head, who swung in with another punch. Grit returned the blow, trying to keep an eye on the other two bots as they jockeyed around, trying to surround him.

Suddenly there was a voice calling down the street: "Police! Freeze right where you are!"

Drill-Head swore, staggering to his feet. "Come on." With surprising speed he dashed down the street, followed by his companions.

Grit stood too, grabbing his suitcase and looking for somewhere to run. He hadn't started the fight, but that might not matter. He was a foreigner who'd been brawling with Vosian citizens.

"Police! Stop!" repeated the voice. It sounded . . . familiar.

Grit turned around to see Eye Candy peeking around the corner.

Grit picked up his equipment and walked over to him, trying not to wince at the throbbing in his jaw. "I thought I told you to fly away."

"I did, but then I saw they weren't chasing me so I came back. Were they trying to mug you? Do you owe them money?"

"You should've done what I said."

"Hmph! You're welcome!"

"Shut up and carry the suitcase."

"The voice was good though, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Join the Decepticons and become an actor. Carry the suitcase."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Underground was not glamorous, with the permanent smog choking the streets and drifts of garbage everywhere, refuse and ash that tumbled from the gleaming towers above. But there was one stretch on Grit's daily commute where the shops were merely dingy and worn rather than being in immediate danger of falling apart.

He had even seen one shopkeep scrubbing down the stainless steel front of her narrow shop, once. He had offered her a brochure, thinking that her willingness to strive against the inevitable would make her a valuable recruit, but she had threatened to call the enforcers on him before he had gotten three sentences out.

These days he walked past the shops without sparing them a glance. Or he would have, if Eye Candy weren't along.

The jet dawdled at every shop window, sometimes snorting in amusement at the wares ("Can you _imagine_ relying on _turpentine_ for polish? Honestly, I'd just kill myself."), staring in confusion at any tool more complicated than a hammer in a way Grit found irritating, and very, very occasionally taking a genuine interest in a ware.

It was this last that was slowing down their progress and making Grit antsy.

"Come _on,_ kid," Grit called. Eye Candy had slipped away to stare at a window display on the other side of the street. That was to say, on the other side of the empty void that jets treated as a street. Eye Candy reluctantly dragged himself away, checked both ways, and crossed the gap with a running jump. Grit's spark leapt to his throat. He forcibly reminded himself that Eye Candy could fly.

"About time," Grit said. "We've already been attacked once tonight, in case you forgot."

 _"You_ got attacked. I can take care of myself." But Eye Candy picked up his pace, staying close to Grit. At least until the next window display caught his attention.

"Kid," Grit said impatiently.

"Hmm?" Pressed up to the glass, the Seeker didn't even spare him a glance.

Grit rolled his optics. "Hurry your aft up, Eye Candy."

It wasn't until Eye Cand— _the red jet—_ swiveled around with an indignant gasp that Grit remembered that it wasn't his real name. "Wh- _what_ did you call me?"

"You heard me," Grit said, doubling down. "But if you've got a better word for in your fancy Vosian dialect for someone who's only interested in his appearance—"

"It's _not_ all I'm interested in," he snapped.

"Is that so. 'Cause I noticed all it takes is a couple cans of wax and some mannequins with wing decals to stop you in your tracks."

"We're walking by them! Why shouldn't I look when they're literally right there? Ugh! I _saved_ you, you know!"

"So I'd buy you stuff?"

 _"No."_ He paused. "But if you wanted to—"

Grit let out a long sigh. "Come on."

He half-expected him to refuse, but after a moment Eye Ca— _the red jet—_ uncrossed his arms and followed along. He refused to look at Grit, though, staring sulkily down the street.

"What's your real name?" Grit asked after a minute.

"Vermillion."

"Vermillion?" _That_ threw Grit for a loop. "Like, 'red'? Your name's Red?"

"It's _not_ Red, it's _Vermillion._ It's not the same thing at all, it's . . . it's fancy."

"But it basically means red, right? How old are you?"

"I'm not a _newspark_ , if that's what you're asking." His plating bristled, then smoothed down as he took a deep breath. "I just want to think of something really good. I don't want to be like Starlance aka Sunlance aka Sunspark aka Glitterwing, where no one even tries to remember what he's calling himself anymore because it changes every week. I want to reveal my name and have everyone say, 'Wow, that's so perfect for you!'"

"You're never gonna be able to please everyone." So 'Vermillion' was a placeholder name. That made Grit feel better, that he wasn't dragging a just-out-of-cohort, wide-eyed, literal new spark into a dangerous part of town. "Okay. Nice to meet you, Vermillion. I'm Grit."

"I know, I heard Professor Airwave call you that," Vermillion muttered, still out of sorts. "I'm not deaf."

"Well . . . great. What were you looking at in that shop?"

"Fingercaps."

"What're those?"

"You know. _Fingercaps._ Like, enamel tips you put on your fingers? To make them longer. And pointy."

Grit tried to picture this and guess their function. "For stabbing people or—?"

 _"Stabbing_ people?" Vermillion forwent sulking in favor of staring at Grit. "No, they're just—they just look good!"

"Oh. Nice."

"Do _you_ stab people? Is that what Decepticons do?"

"No, on both counts." All he needed was rumors flying around about him shivving bots. "Praxus is dangerous, 'least parts of it are, so you always gotta watch your back. But the Decepticon movement is all about peaceful resistance—"

"But you're against the caste system, right?" Vermillion interrupted. "You're trying to frag everything up."

"Like things aren't fragged up already.

"Just because life isn't a hundred percent perfect doesn't mean you should tear everything apart. That's selfish. Anyway, how else would we get workers?"

"You don't need the caste system to have job training, kid."

"But how would people know which job to do?"

"They'd choose 'the path that makes their spark sing'." Grit was thinking of a line from one of Megatron's poems, although he knew he'd mangled the quote. "Whatever they were most passionate about."

"What if you don't feel that way about anything?" Vermillion said. When Grit looked at him, he added defensively, "I'm working hard. I'll be a good medic."

"I didn't say you weren't."

"I just think it's kind of nice, knowing you have your own place, where you belong."

"I can see how you'd think that, up in the sun. What about down here?"

"Well . . ." Vermillion stared down the street, lit intermittently by whichever street lights weren't broken, littered with trash. "They should just pay everyone more. Mint more money . . . Vos mints real coins, you know, for special occasions. I have a collection."

"It's— Yeah." It wasn't just about money, it was about freedom. Not that 'make novelty coins' was a solution anyway. Trust a upper caste bot to propose the dumbest solution. "Good idea."

"Thanks. Professor Airwave says I'm one of the most imaginative students he's ever had. He says—uh oh."

Grit tensed. "What?" The hotel was just a half-block away. They could make a run for it.

"Nothing," Vermillion said in a low mutter out of the side of his mouth. He seemed more embarrassed than worried, his optics flicking to the shadows at the left and then back again. "Tell you in a minute."

And he lifted his head and sped forward in a too-stiff, too-fast imitation of his usual walk.

It was then that Grit saw the bot in the shadows. Even as a stranger in a hostile city, it was impossible to take her as any kind of threat. But a surge of shock ran through Grit's frame as he took a better look at the bot rooting through a dumpster, tossing bits of scrap metal into a bulging bag beside her. Half her exterior plating was missing and her remaining paint was splotchy with discoloration, making her form hard to take in. Was that a bio-magnifier over one of her optics? She raised her head to stare at him, not angry or fearful or even curious, but with the dull expression of hopelessness. He turned his head away as he passed.

He'd almost forgotten Vermillion was there until he dropped in pace beside him. "That was—"

"In a minute." Grit led the way to a building with an 'Occupancy' sign stuck in a yellowed window. "This is the place."

Vermillion gave the rundown hotel a dubious look, but followed Grit inside. The suspicious stare of the bulky jet at the front desk tracked them down the hall. The room had two deadbolts and a chain on the inside. Grit pulled them all closed while Vermillion fidgeted.

"That bot out there," Grit said. He lifted a slat of the blinds to look out. She was still searching through the refuse.

"She's a scrap-picker. Old bots, like the really ancient ones, they say they'll suck out your soul if you look them in the eye. I mean, _I_ don't believe that, but—"

"What kind of alt mode would you say she had?"

Vermillion moved up to the window to take a peek. "Uh . . . microscope, I think?"

"Microscope."

"Yeah, she has that shoulder thing like they sometimes do. Why? What do you think she is?"

"Same as you." Grit fell silent. "Makes you think, huh? What led her there."

"She's probably on circuit-boosters," Vermillion said, without malice but without sympathy either. "Or else she couldn't pull her own weight at the docks or whatever. She looks flimsy. I mean, it's not _that_ surprising."

Grit stared at him. "What caste are microscopes here?" he asked finally.

"Unskilled Laborers. They're useless. Well, not _useless,"_ he amended with a quick, nervous smile at Grit. "Just not good for much. Scrap-pickers are caste-less, though. So she must have fallen out of her caste."

Grit stepped away from the window. "In Praxus or Iacon microscopes would be working alongside you. They're medics and scientists."

 _"Microscopes_ are?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Here scientists use real microscopes, that aren't people." Vermillion sounded confused. "What do they do if their equipment gets sick or walks away?"

"The microscopes _are_ scientists, not just 'equipment'. It's their job."

"But how do they _get_ anywhere? Even grounders at least have wheels. Unless . . . do microscopes in Praxus have wheels?"

"No. They go in shuttles or hire drivers."

"Well." Vermillion looked dubious. "It sounds very inefficient."

Grit didn't answer; he shoved his suitcase of brochures under the bed and sat down at the (very cramped, very small) desk in the corner to think. The proponents of the caste system said it was impartial and scientific. But this was _proof_ that it wasn't: one city-state putting microscopes in nearly the highest caste while another put microscopes in the very lowest caste.

If he got nothing else out of this trip, at least he had that. Megatron could do something with that.

"You staying the night?" he asked, making a note on his datapad to follow up on information about the Vosian caste system.

"Of course I am," Vermillion said coyly.

With some misgivings, Grit turned. There was the sleek red Seeker, posing on the bed with his hand draped over his thigh, giving him a _look_ from half-closed optics.

Grit knew a lot of bots would have jumped at the chance to bed an exotic Vosian Seeker. Hell, he would have been tempted . . . if he hadn't seen this particular bot cry sniveling tears over his ruined finish, listened to his woeful tale about his 'mortal enemy', and learned that his name was, essentially, the color of his paint, like half the newsparks out there.

"You're sleeping on the _floor_ if you stay," he said. He hoped this wouldn't spur a tantrum or, worse, more tears.

But Vermillion just looked surprised. He sat up and shifted his arm to rest on his knee and, as simple as that, his seductive pose became a casual one. "Really? I thought that was the whole reason you brought me here."

"To frag you?"

"Well, you did call me eye candy and take me to a hotel," Vermillion said. His manner did not suggest either relief or disappointment at learning that he'd misinterpreted Grit's intentions. At least not until he looked over the side of the berth and saw the mystery stain that covered a good portion of the floor. He made a face. "If we frag can I sleep on the bed?"

"We're not fragging, period. But . . . you can sleep on the bed if you don't get handsy, I guess." Grit paused. "Why did you come along if you thought I wanted that?"

Vermillion shrugged. "It's a good way to connect with people. And it's fun." After a moment he added, "And you're not _hideous_ or _deformed_ or anything."

"Wow, thanks," Grit said drily.

"You're welcome," Vermillion said. Either he had perfected his game face or he had not caught Grit's sarcasm.

In any case, he wiggled over to one side of the berth, settling on his stomach with his wings bristling up from his back. Grit lay with his back to him, listening to Vermillion's quiet, even vents as he sank into slumber.

 _I can tell the bots at home that I slept with a high caste Seeker anyway,_ he thought. _It's_ technically _true._

* * *

The next morning Grit woke to the sound of his neighbor's vid-screen, muffled through the wall. At least that was what he assumed, based on past experience, until he opened an optic, still pixelating from his sleep-state, and saw Vermillion hunched over his, Grit's, datapad.

Grit sat bolt upright, crazy ideas flitting through his processor. What if Vermillion wasn't who he said he was? What if he was looking for the oh-so-carefully guarded Decepticon membership roles? It would be easy for a skilled spy to pass himself off as a student . . . The Senate would love to jail everyone involved with the cause, from Megatron and Orion all the way down to the grunts like Grit.

"Hey," he said, surprised his voice was so calm.

Vermillion jerked upright guiltily, pulling the datapad to his chest before offering it to Grit.

"Sorry," he said, but he didn't sound sorry, he sounded excited and nervous. "You were asleep and I was bored and . . . What _are_ they?"

Grit glanced at the video clip, still playing. "It's a street race." An illegal one. The clip ended with enforcers pouring out to 'arrest' the competitors, then accepting bribes to let them go free.

"But they're grounders, aren't they?" Vermillion was leaning over his shoulder now. "I've never seen grounders that look like _that."_ He leaned back a little to give Grit a critical look. _"You_ don't look like that."

Grit tamped down his irritation. "I'm a construction vehicle. Those are speedsters."

"They let you work in construction? You must be very good," Vermillion said in a distracted tone, optics fixed on the screen as the clip began to replay.

Grit remembered him saying something about all grounders being in the Unskilled Labor caste. Who knew there was a place where his caste would be considered 'high'.

"Yeah, I'm good," Grit said. He opened a different file, this one of Megatron fighting Sunstreaker in the gladiatorial arena, and handed the datapad back to Vermillion. "See if you like that. Then we can head upstairs together."

"Okay." Vermillion retired to the desk in the corner, optics fixed on the screen.

* * *

Vermillion was quiet on the trip upside. At first this was because he was watching videos on the datapad as he walked. After he almost walked into traffic, Grit took it away from him. His silence was more thoughtful after that. It lasted until they were halfway up the stairs.

"Speedsters aren't in the construction caste, are they? Are they all fighters, like that gold bot?"

"They're in lots of different castes. Not construction. But shops and things. Some are professional racers." He paused. "Those gladiators, they were Sunstreaker and Megatron."

"Oh."

"Megatron . . . the leader of the Decepticon cause," Grit said. "Pretty powerful, huh?"

"The other grounder was a lot better looking," Vermillion said. "Really shiny! Do you know what his daily beauty routine is?"

Oh well.

"So I take it Vos doesn't have gladiators."

Vermillion shook his head. "Not that I know of. Or street races."

Grit could understand that, given that anyone driving on Vos' narrow (and rare) paved roads was in danger of plummeting to their death if they hit the throttle at the wrong time.

"Well, if you're ever in Praxus you should visit the Trintagun Racetrack. Races twice a week."

Vermillion's steps slowed as they reached a landing. _"I'll_ never get to Praxus."

"Why not?"

"'Cause they don't want us getting hurt or kidnapped or killed even in a foreign city. I mean, I understand. We serve the glory of Vos . . ."

"What about after you graduate?"

Vermillion shook his head. "That's even worse. You don't spend all your time polishing a precious jewel and then throw it away once you're done."

"You saying you can't leave the city _ever?"_

"We can if we get permission," Vermillion said. "Only it's really hard to get permission . . ." He broke off, straightening his back and hiking his wings. "It's okay, though. Vos is a great city! Everyone knows the rest of Cybertron is jealous of us. Everything I need is right here."

But he looked a little unsure behind his smile.


	4. Chapter 4

"I asked Professor Airwave about microscopes."

Grit looked up. The last he'd seen of Vermillion, the Seeker had been jetting across the plaza to catch his first class. Now here he was again, polished to a higher shine than ever to make up for the slap-bandages up and down his chest.

And he wanted to talk caste. Oh boy.

"Yeah?" Grit said.

"He said he knows all about those foreign microscopes. They let him go to a symposium in Crystal City once. He said they have different CNA. _Our_ microscopes can't do advanced work like that because their processors are too small. You know—when they mass-shift."

"You think 'foreign' microscopes don't mass-shift?"

"Well . . ." Vermillion hesitated. "He didn't say."

"'Well', they do. So that's a load of slag."

"WELL, that's what he said and he's a fully trained medic and _you're_ just a nobody. What I mean is," Vermillion hurried on as Grit's stare became unfriendly, "he has more scientific training. Sorry."

"Maybe you should think about what you mean before you open your mouth." Grit only had a vague idea what CNA _was,_ but he trusted his gut. "Did Airwave drop any other words of wisdom or did you just come here to tell me I was wrong about microscopes?"

"He said Crystal City was beautiful. He said you could rent a carriage pulled by beast-formers, and he took one to the beach. He said he'd show me pictures later."

"Dragging a cart. Yeah, slag like that's the only work most beast-mode Cybertronians can get."

"Hmmm . . ." Vermillion's look was faraway, probably imagining him in a carriage and certainly not imagining himself pulling one. "We don't really have beast-bots. At least, I guess we have _some._ Because a couple years ago there was a circus that said it had trained animals, but it turned out they were just beast-formers. It's not fair, making people think you trained a wild Two-Headed Razorjaw when really it's just one of _those_ following a _script."_

"You sure have a lot of suffering in your life. First Lunarwing, then the circus. Poor you."

Vermillion gave him a hurt look, but all he said was, "The circus happened first, _then_ Lunarwing." He began to drift away.

"Wait a minute, kid." Grit had an idea. "You liked those gladiator vid clips, didn't you?"

"Yeah!" Vermillion's wings perked up as he doubled back to the table. "Can I see them again?"

"You can see those _and_ some new ones if you do a little something for me."

"I tried to last night, but you weren't interested."

Primus save him from this kid. "Something _else."_

"Like what?"

"I need a printout of the caste system in Vos. Who's above who. And a list of all the castes that aren't allowed to leave, like you medics."

"We _are_ allowed to leave, if we have permission. I just said Airwave was in Crystal City, didn't I?" Vermillion shifted from pede to pede. "What are you going to use them for?"

"Research."

"I don't want you to screw things up. I like my caste."

"You're not the only Vosian who's told me that," Grit said drily. "I'll take the info back to Praxus. Nothing here will change at all." That was probably the truth, even if Grit wasn't happy about it. "I just want to look for differences."

"Like the microscopes?" Vermillion looked more at ease. "But I'll have to look through so much to find all that. I don't know if I still _have_ those books even, I took Caste Taxonomy years ago."

"If you already studied it, just tell me. I'll write it down." Grit picked up a stylus.

"Um. I don't know it off the top of my head. I memorize junk like that right before the test. All I remember is 'techs above specs, A through F above decks'—wait, or was it 'specs above techs'? That category is a mess . . ."

Grit put down the stylus. "Maybe I'll ask someone else. Lunarwing looks smart."

Vermillion's lip pushed out in a pout. "No! I'll find out. I'll go to the _library,_ I guess," he said in a tone that made it clear what a burden this was.

"You do that," Grit said. He hadn't made it past the front desk when he'd tried the same, a couple hours before. "Sorry to inconvenience you."

* * *

On the way home—if the hotel could be considered 'home', even temporarily—Grit stopped at bar. He'd been drinking there long enough for the barkeep to give him a nod of recognition when he came in . . . though it wasn't a friendly nod. With his limited budget, Grit nursed each drink as long as he could, a fact not lost on the staff.

While he drank he listened to the factory bots complain about long hours and low pay, shaking their heads as they talked about which compatriot had lost an arm or a leg or (in hushed, horrified tones) a wing to the dangerous equipment.

 _I could help you,_ Grit thought. _The Decepticons could help you. Megatron could help you._ But as fired up as they were now, he knew their passion would die into a cold, cold silence if he went over to their table. So he just eavesdropped until the barkeeper's stares at his empty glass became too pointed. Sighing, he pulled out a cred-stick and paid off his tab.

Another streetlight had burnt out leading up to the hotel, leaving it darker than ever. But not so dark he couldn't see a shiny red Seeker sitting on the stoop.

"Vermillion?"

The Seeker looked up from a set of flashcards he'd been flipping through. "Oh, hi! It took you long enough. But it's okay. It's a warm night."

This was not what Grit wanted to deal with right now. He wanted to sleep away his depressing lack of progress. "Why're you here?"

"I got that caste list for you—"

Grit pulled the holopaper out of his hand, glancing around. This _probably_ wasn't confidential information, it _probably_ was legal for him to have, but the line between legal and illegal could blur very quickly when the enforcers hated your guts. _Hell, in this town the construction bots would probably help them beat me up._ "Let's go inside."

Vermillion nodded eagerly, following him to his room. "Can I see the video?" he asked as soon as the door was closed.

"In a minute." Grit flipped through the papers. "You said you'd get information on what castes have limited movement, where's that stuff?"

"The library was closing. I'll get it tomorrow. Can I see the video please?"

"Once you get the other stuff. That was our agreement."

Vermillion's face screwed up in indignation, and Grit realized he'd made a serious mistake. If the medical student complained to his superiors, Grit was in for it. He should have just shown him the vid clip, there were always more to bait him with—

But Vermillion's expression quickly smoothed out and he even tilted his head with an appealing smile. "I brought half the information, so I should get to watch half the video."

Grit breathed mental sigh of relief without changing his actual expression. "Okay. Sure."

"Really?" Apparently he had not been expecting a victory; he looked delighted. "Okay, show me. I won't go a single second past the midpoint, I promise."

Grit grunted in acknowledgement as he scrolled through his video options. He would've brought a lot more clips if he'd thought he'd be using them as bribes. He finally settled for one with Megatron fighting three bots at once. Vermillion had to be impressed by that, right? He handed the datapad to the jet, whose his wings gleamed as he leaned over it.

"By the way," Grit said, "if you're going to come down here you might want to be more inconspicuous. You're real . . . shiny."

"But I hid my medical mark. See?"

"Yeeeeah, I see a little smudge on a pair of shiny, shiny wings on a shiny, shiny bot. You're gonna get mugged, or worse."

Vermillion snorted as he tapped at the datapad. "You think I'm rich or something, but they hardly give us any pocket money."

Where Grit came from anyone who had a good source of clean energon, a safe job, and a warm place to sleep was rich, but he wasn't about to get pulled into a debate about _that_.

"Maybe some of the bots out there won't believe that. Just think about the impression you're making. Okay?"

"Okay." Vermillion leaned further over the datapad and, to drive his point home, covered his audials as he focused on the screen. To his credit, he did pause the clip at the halfway point and hand back the datapad. "For the other half of my payment, is there anything with that golden bot in it please?" he asked politely. "It doesn't have to be fighting."

"Ask me tomorrow," Grit said.

Vermillion nodded. He picked up a brochure and glanced over it, which was a first. First he looked confused, then he let out a sarcastic snort which he tried to stifle. And then back to confused.

"Was Megatron really a miner and _then_ a gladiator and _then_ a poet? They let him change twice?"

"He let himself change," Grit said, although technically Megatron's gladiator career had been government sanctioned. At least until people started listening to him. "But yeah."

"He doesn't look like a poet."

"Anyone can look like a poet. You like poems?"

"Not really. They're too short and there's no story. I like radio dramas."

Oh well. "Radio? Not vid-shows?"

"It's illegal to watch video while you fly," he yawned. "I'm very law-abiding." He crawled onto the bed and flopped onto his front, one arm shielding his optics.

"Sure you can stay here, Vermillion. Thanks for asking first."

The jet didn't answer. He was already fast asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Grit was back in the bar. It wasn't the liveliest, with the patrons more given to a heavy, strut-deep silence rather than raucous songs. Purely a place to drink trouble away. If he closed his eyes he could imagine he was home in Praxus. Kinda nice.

The crew from the steel factory was taking up their usual table in the corner, talking in low grumbles about the latest troubles. A blast furnace had exploded; fifteen bots injured, two dead.

"Scorchmark oughta have repaired the lining years ago. Everyone knew it was cracking."

"What does he care? He'd smelt his own trinemates if it make him a buck."

"He's not gonna be making much now that Number Three's a smoking crater. And Number Two took damage so now _that's_ down . . . They told me not to come in 'until further notice.' I'm already behind two months on rent. Fragging wonderful."

"At least you still have a job. I heard Twinsight got two letters: 'we regret your injury, be more careful in the future' and 'you're fired.'"

"Not just him. Scorchmark fired everyone who worked Number Three."

"Fragger."

And they fell into a gloomy, burdened silence again. After about an hour, as though responding to some unspoken signal, they collectively stood and marched to the door. Only one of their number broke away, a bulky grey-and-green jet who paid off enough of the group's tab to earn a grunt from the barkeep.

"Hey," Grit said on an impulse as the jet turned to follow his friends. "Why'd Scorchmark fire everybody?"

The jet gave him a long stare, slowly tucking his cred stick under his scuffed plating as he studied Grit. "The inspectors will be coming around," he said, not hostile but wary. "Big explosion like that could destabilize upper levels. He'll blame the workers."

"Always the way, huh. Fragger."

"Yeah."

Grit felt sure he could have earned the Vosian's trust then, if he offered to pay off the tab. But he didn't have the credits. He just watched as the jet turned and continued out the door.

He signed and signaled the barkeep to pay his own tab. It would be nice to have an ally down here; in the meantime he had an appointment to keep with a shiny brat of a Seeker.

* * *

For being 'very law-abiding', Vermillion did not have any apparent qualms about funneling restricted information to a low caste Decepticon. Grit wondered if he understood that Grit was not just unwelcome in the library, but prohibited.

At the very least Vermillion had enough sense to keep their connection quiet.

"The staff is beginning to recognize me," he said as he glided over, transforming. Vermillion had convinced him to meet somewhere new (actually his exact words were 'somewhere that smells better'), so here they were a shabby but respectable mid-level park, both of them looking a little out of place. "I told them I was doing a research paper on the history of the caste system."

"Good thinking." Grit took the datapad as Vermillion settled on the bench beside him.

"Want some popped energon?" Vermillion held out a small striped bag filled with tiny beads of energon.

"Nah." Grit was scrolling through the datapad. He found pages and pages devoted to the shape, length, and angle of wings, and which class each configuration was "suited" for. Vosians were bizarre.

"Go to the Medical and Science section," Vermillion said, leaning over his elbow. And he added for the thousandth time, "You won't mess things up, will you?"

"Mess things up how?"

"I dunno."

"This city doesn't need any help getting messed up. Don't suppose you heard about the blast furnace exploding."

To his surprise, Vermillion nodded, his expression serious. "Oh yeah, it was in the news. The blast was so big it shot up _two levels_ , and part of a load-bearing wall collapsed and that meant more damage on the levels above _that_ , and it was so bad that _cracks_ just _shot through_ the floor in the east wing of the Museum of Culture, and they had to evacuate everyone in case it _collapsed!"_

"Yeah," Grit said. "Also two bots died."

"Oh, really? They didn't mention that."

Grit drew in a deep vent, closing his optics. "I'll try some of that popped energon now."

"Sure." Vermillion started to hand him the bag, then pulled it close to his chest. "Uh oh."

Grit unwillingly followed Vermillion's gaze, bracing himself for whatever else Primus had sent to test him. He was not expecting to see a cohort of newsparks staring at them with interest. They were young, their plating still mostly black and with the characteristic chitinous texture and an unformed look that only vaguely resembled the jets they would someday be.

And they were headed over.

Grit relaxed. "What's the matter? You afraid of other newsparks, Red?"

"That's _Vermillion!_ And here, we'll see how much you like them in a minute." He shoved the bag of energon treats at Grit so fast that a few tumbled to the ground.

With a speed that belied their bulk, the newsparks dove for the bits of energon. One of them greedily elbowed another out of the way, ignoring the squawk of opponent until its friend-turned-foe followed up its objection with a strong bite. Meanwhile the other newsparks took advantage of the distraction to snatch up the rest of the energon pellets.

After a brief, raucous scrabble, the newsparks calmed down enough to locate the source of the food. They hung back about fifteen feet, all of them staring intently at the striped bag in Grit's hand.

Grit couldn't help but smile. Younglings, at least, were the same everywhere. Except it was the first time he'd seen a cohort where all the newsparks had wings. He flicked an energon morsel out and watched them chase it. "They're cute."

"I'm glad you think so, 'cause they're never going to leave you alone now," Vermillion said in a long-suffering tone. "Professor Airwave leaves out energon for them, but only when they're not looking . . ."

"You get 'em on the upper levels too?"

"Sure, they're newsparks, they go where they want. Why, what do you do in Praxus? Cage them like animals?"

"'Course not; they roam around. But it's not a vertical city. How do they get up here?"

"Um, I think they just climb. There are special tunnels for them between levels but it's hard to get them to use them."

"Sounds about right."

"One of the parks on the _way-_ way upper levels built a sculpture out of copper but the builder forgot to put in the additive to make it taste bad . . . You can imagine what happened, it lasted about a week before a cohort found it. They left it in, though. Renamed it 'Persistence of the Young' or something. Looked like a chewed up mess to _me."_

"You saw it?"

"Just pictures."

Grit tossed the last few energon morsels out, where they were devoured immediately. "No more," he told the newsparks. They drew back a little as he spoke, but clustered in again as he showed his empty hands, their optics hopeful and greedy.

"You heard him. You ate it all! Gone!" Vermillion flapped his hands at them. A newspark twice his size flared its proto-wings and screeched. Vermillion scowled. "Don't start with me. Go away!"

Instead the newspark's arm shot forward to snatched the bag from Grit. Holding it to its chest, it turns and began to galumph away.

"Oh no you don't! No! _Bad!"_ Vermillion jumped up. The entire cohort bolted away as he transformed. The big newspark gave a static filled yelp as the Seeker buzzed it, dropping the bag to cower. Vermillion let his engines cut out, transforming as he landed in robot mode, snatching up the bag. He sighed as the big newspark galloped away to join the rest of its cohort, who were peeking around a modest fountain.

"The bags are bad for them if they eat them," he explained as he sat back down. "But of course they're too dumb to know."

"Sorry I lost hold of it."

"It's okay, it happens all the time. So . . . video?" He offered a charming smile.

"Can't wait any longer, huh brat?"

 _"I'm_ not a brat." The smile became a smirk. "I'm a perfect example of what a medic should be. All the teachers say so."

Grit reminded himself that cuffing a high caste bot upside the head would be a dumb move, especially in public. "Top of your class, huh?"

"Well." He paused. "My grades aren't the _best,_ but they're not bad."

"Then you're not a perfect example, now are you?"

"Sure I am. Look at me."

Grit did look at Vermillion, then back at the datapad. His silhouette matched up almost perfectly with the "recommended" body type for the medical caste, aside from his legs being a little thicker, his heels not being so extreme, and the little details like his helm design. "I see what you mean."

 _"And_ look at my paint! It healed really well. Professor Airwave gave me some stuff to speed up nanite production. I'll have to thank him later . . . Of course I still need to wax and polish it to make it match the rest—"

"Looks great," Grit said, handing over a dataslug before Vermillion really started bombarding him with fashion tips.

"Oh, thank you!"

"Welcome." Through trial and error, Grit had figured out what Vermillion liked: shiny bots, preferably jets or speedsters. Today's reward was a short clip of a fashion show in Iacon. From the way Vermillion's face lit up, it was a hit.

"These are Decepticons?" he asked, optics fixed on sleek grounder and a handful of jets even more finely polished than himself.

"No, they're fashion models."

"Oh, I get it. You keep this for private viewing, huh?" And Vermillion actually winked at him.

Grit thought about explaining that the ridiculous wealth and leisure on display was supposed to make the viewer pissed off, not titillated. "Sure, let's go with that."

"But really, you should recruit them. Have _them_ hand out pamphlets. Then everyone would want to join you."

"Thanks, Vee. I'll make a note of that. Recruit the elite bots who don't want anything to change."

"Everyone wants _something_ to change . . ." Vermillion fidgeted, optics never leaving the screen.

"Yeah, the main thing I want is for the factory workers to stop looking at me like I'm carrying the cybonic plague . . . You got any thoughts on that?"

"Me?" Vermillion looked up.

"It's your city."

"I don't know anything about the bots _you're_ interested in. Except . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Well, in the radio shows anyone with a Praxian accent is a bad guy. Like a gangster or a fugitive."

"You're saying people don't like me because of the _radio?"_

"No, more like they're bad guys on the radio because of how people already feel about Praxians. And maybe . . ." Vermillion's wings pulled in as he looked off to the side. "Maybe you don't exactly make the best impression."

"I'm trying to connect with the lower castes, not get polished up for a party."

"Um, that's not exactly what I mean. I just mean . . ."

"What?"

Vermillion took a deep in-vent and held it for a second before bursting out, "You're blocky and strange looking. You're a grounder but you're in the wrong caste and you're not even _grateful_. You have an accent that sounds like you should be mugging someone. And then on top of that you tell people you want to change things here, but everyone _knows_ Praxus and Kaon are a mess so they think, 'Well, why don't you go home and keep your nosecone out of our business?' I don't think that, though," Vermillion added sheepishly, clicking his fingers together. "Um, sorry. That was rude."

"You don't have to be sorry. I asked." And it wasn't like Grit hadn't known most of that, on some level. "So . . . why don't I bother your teacher? Or the others up there."

Vermillion shrugged. "Medics meet all kinds of people. Even the ones who never leave Vos read all the scientific papers and things, from all over."

"But the lower castes don't have that contact with the outside world . . ."

"They _could,_ if they wanted to. No one's stopping _them_ from leaving." Vermillion huffed. "Anyway, it's just a guess."

"Hmm."

"In the radio shows, if a bot isn't trusted right away then he just has to stop a murder or something to gain everyone's trust." When Grit gave him a level look, Vermillion said defensively, "It doesn't _have_ to be a murder. You could stop a robbery. Or how about those three bots who jumped you? You could beat them up. They were jerks."

"They kicked my aft. Besides, beating up some of their own— Yeah, that would go over well."

"It _might_. If everyone hates them more than you."

"Well, they don't."

"Oh well, I tried." Vermillion sighed, shrugged, and went back to his video, watching beautiful people doing beautiful things.

Grit watched the newsparks playing around the fountain and tried to regain a feeling of relaxation. But he kept thinking about Vermillion's words.

Someone people hated more than him . . .

He knew someone like that.


	6. Chapter 6

The newsparks lingered a while, watching them, before deciding that Grit really didn't have any more energon and galumphing away deeper into the park.

"Finally," Vermillion grumbled, "it's safe to eat again." But he didn't actually get up, occupied as he was with watching other Seekers strolling by and, more often than not, offering a coy smile if they looked his way.

"He's not your caste, is he?" Grit asked as Vermillion's gazed after a broad-shouldered green jet with a matte paint job.

"So? I thought you hated the caste system."

"Yeah . . ."

"Well, you sound just like my teachers right now. Primus! I'm just _looking."_

"Do trines ever have bots from different castes?"

"Oh, sure. But you want your trinemates to be _about_ the same strata as you so they don't drag you down or complicate your security clearances. _I'm_ going to stick with medics. I'll find the two prettiest doctors in Vos and we'll start a clinic."

"Even if one's Lunarwing?"

Vermillion gave him a sour look. "I'm going to get some more energon." He added over his shoulder, "And he _won't_ be!" before flouncing away.

Grit suppressed a chuckle. It would be nice if his problems were as simple as an unpleasant classmate, but he had a revolution to start. He'd come to Vos thinking that Megatron's words would be enough. Maybe they would've been, if Megatron were the one speaking them.

The 'poet' reputation probably didn't help. Grit himself had sneered at the anti-functionists (as they were called before the 'Decepticon' label stuck) when he heard they were led by a _poet._ Poetry was wussy bullshit, just another way for the elites to waste their time. Useless, pretty rhymes.

Then, at the begging of an amica, he'd read one of Megatron's pieces, and the words had set his spark ablaze. He hadn't known a poem could be like that. Ugly. Brutal. True.

Then again, maybe it wasn't just a class problem. Maybe, for the Vosians, something was lost in translation. The previous day he'd convinced Vermillion to read one of Megatron's poems (okay, he'd _bribed_ him to read it) and after Vermillion optics had moved carefully over the words, he'd given Grit an insincere smile and said it was "pretty good".

Grit could have accepted anger or denial or an argument; Vermillion was an upper caste bot after all. But "pretty good", like it was twice-warmed-over energon? The worst part was that Vermillion, sensing Grit's consternation, had then tried to appease him by adding, "That's a really interesting meter he used!" Grit still had no idea what that meant but he was offended nonetheless.

 _Maybe if I showed him a different one? Like_ The Winnowing . . . _? Nah, I'm not here to educate upper-caste brats. He's got a whole school for that._

Speaking of the brat in question . . . Grit glanced around. Where was the kid? He wouldn't leave over a little ribbing, right? Primus, Grit didn't want to try to find way back by himself. He got up to take a look around.

The young Seeker wasn't by the energon vendor or the fountain or the newsparks (who were now dozing in a comfortable pile) . . . Just when Grit was beginning to think that Vermillion really had abandoned him, he caught a flash of red behind a gardener's outbuilding. It _might_ have been the tip of a Seeker's wing.

Grit trooped over and rounded the back of the building. And stopped, confronted with the sight of Vermillion in an enthusiastic liplock with a familiar broad-shouldered green Seeker. For a moment Grit was shocked to see open chestplates jammed together and then, upon reflection, not.

He was about to retreat when Vermillion opened his eyes with a satisfied sigh, spotted him, and stared with comically round optics.

"What is it?" The green Seeker, angled away from Grit, started to turn. Vermillion grabbed him by the helm and practically headbutted him in his haste to pull him towards his face.

"Nothing! Kiss me!" Vermillion's eyes flicked over the green bot's shoulder. "For . . . for about ten minutes!"

The green Seeker chuckled, mouthing at his neck. "Oh, I'll do more than that."

Vermillion relaxed in his arms, barely glancing after Grit as he retreated. "Mmm . . . good."

Grit went back to the bench and waited. In, indeed, about ten minutes Vermillion came trotting back, looking just a little embarrassed. "Hey."

Grit lifted an eyebrow. "I thought you were just looking."

"Well . . ." Vermillion smiled and shrugged. "It was a _close_ look. You won't tell anyone, right?"

"No. But you should be careful."

"I am, I've only been caught once."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"Oh boy, where to start. I got a looong lecture on 'respecting my frame and my profession' and detention for two months. And on top of _that_ I had to write a ten page report on all the diseases the lower castes can carry. I was like, 'What do you think we have firewalls for?'. I mean, I didn't _say_ that but I thought it."

"And the other bot?"

"How's this for injustice: she got clean away! The teacher had barely said, 'Hey you!' and she was a speck on the horizon. I would _not_ have guessed a shuttle could move that fast." He shook his head. "But I can't really blame her. I would've booked it too, except the teacher had already recognized me . . . I was way too close to the school that time. Live and learn, right?"

"Yeah, I guess." Grit had to admit a grudging admiration for the way Vermillion viewed punishments as a sign he needed to be more cunning, not a sign he should stop what he was doing. Even if Grit felt fragging strangers was a morally questionable goal. "You ready to go back or are there any more bots you want to grind on?"

"Ha ha, you're a riot."

Grit wasn't, but maybe he could help start one.

* * *

While Vermillion headed topside to his university, Grit headed down to the manufacturing levels.

The remains of blast furnace Number Three were easy to find. Smoke was still curling up from its ruins. Grit slowed as he approached the blown out factory. Shards of twisted metal littered the blast radius, as well as irregular, silvery globs-metal rapidly superheated to a liquid state, then quickly cooled.

He'd expected security guards or enforcers who would try to chase him away, but there was no one, no movement at all except dust and ash and a strange glint at the base of the factory's one standing wall.

The tilt of the wall made Grit uneasy, but he hadn't come all the way to Vos just to squint from a distance, so he went over.

Two names had been scratched into blackened ash of the wall with tools or talons: Geargrind and Wrench. They were surrounded by dozens of tin, V-shaped medallions with thin, curling tails of holopaper. Grit tugged gently on a medallion, easily breaking the hold of the weak magnet glued to its back. The metal was flimsy, even for tin, but it did have a pattern of curlicues stamped into it. However, it was the paper tail that interested Grit the most. He pulled it taut and read the message written in a rough hand: "Primus took you too early the selfish bugger so he'd better treat you right."

The other medallions had messages too: "Rest in peace amica." "May your spark fly high." "Darker without you." "Only the good die young so why'd you go."

Some of them were signed. Grit began writing down all the names.


	7. Chapter 7

At one point Grit had asked Vermillion for his comm code. It made sense, right? Make it easier to coordinate.

Vermillion's refusal had been polite, but firm. "I'm not supposed to give it out. I'd get in so much trouble." It seemed to Grit that most of what they did would get Vermillion "in so much trouble", but he hadn't pushed the issue.

Now he wished he'd insisted. He'd been at his table for over an hour, alleviating his boredom by counting the number of blue Seekers that crossed the plaza versus the number of green Seekers. So far the blues were winning.

 _We were going to meet this morning, right? That's what we settled on?_ He tried to remember the exact wording of their conversation. Frag. Why couldn't Vermillion just give him his comm code?

His optics wandered to the table where he'd first seen Vermillion, back when he was just Eye Candy, sitting with his friends. Today only a purple Seeker—elderly judging by the stiff way he moved—was sitting there very slowly eating energon jells. As Grit watched him, he became aware of whispers behind him.

 _It's fine. You have a permit._ He turned around slowly . . . relaxing when he saw a gaggle of newsparks staring at him.

They were the first cohort he'd seen on this level of Vos, and they skewed older than the ones he'd seen in the other park. They were already molting, showing smooth, colorful plating through the cracks in the craggy chitin that had protected them in their early years. His attention didn't panic them, either. Rather than running they just blinked and kept studying him. Two of them had that blank look of bots engaged in a data scan. Probably trying to get a feel for his alt mode.

"Hi kids," Grit said.

"Hello," said the orange newspark near the front, who seemed to be the oldest. She held a piece of holopaper scrunched in her hand and occasionally, absent-mindedly, nibbled the edge of it.

Grit waited for a few seconds in case the newsparks had anything more to say. They didn't. He turned back to his table and ignored them. Or at least pretended to. They began whispering again when his back was turned and he caught the word "wheels". It was kind of fun to think he might be the first grounder they'd seen, even if it was unlikely.

He felt the gentle brush of a data field and when he glanced back over his shoulder he found the newsparks hovering close behind him, to a degree that he would have found uncomfortable or threatening from an adult.

But they weren't adults. Some bots were annoyed by newsparks, but their artless curiosity amused Grit. "You don't gotta sneak up. I don't bite. Come around front."

The newspark exchanged glances, smiled, and scurried around the table.

"I'm Orange," announced the orange newspark. "And these are Blue, Foot, Rock, and Double Orange."

"'Cause I'm also orange," piped up Double Orange, who was about half the size of the others.

Rock picked up a brochure, unfolding it. "You've got a lot of papers. Did you write all these? I know how to write too."

"No you don't," said Foot.

"Yes I do!" Rock grabbed a pen off the table and made an aimless scrawl across the pamphlet. "I just wrote Foot is an aft', hee hee!"

"No you _didn't!"_ Foot tried to grab the pen away and they began slapping at each other.

"Stop it, you're embarrassing us!" Orange stamped her foot. She turned to Grit and said, very solemnly, "I'm sorry. They are just terrible. But anyway, _I_ know how to write." She took a pen and wrote ' E' in shaky letters. The other newsparks leaned in to watch, even Rock and Foot.

"That's really good," Grit said, leaning forward as Orange held up her work. "Written clear as day. 'Orange.'"

Orange smiled demurely. "They give classes in the park sometimes for reading or flying or things and I always go—"

"I can fly and Orange can't!" Rock broke in, grinning. He had a new dental plate coming in at an angle. It was flat and thin, yet it would eventually push out all his thick, sharp baby teeth, one by one. For now he had half and half. "They said I'm the youngest bot they've seen fly!"

"I can almost fly," Orange said. "I just get my thrusters confused."

"I flew once," Blue said quietly. They seemed to be the most reserved of the group. "It was scary."

The others stared. "Nuh uh," Double Orange said. "When?"

"I fell off a landing platform. I was so scared that I flew. I only got scratched up a little. I fell ten stories."

"That's _amazing,"_ Rock breathed.

Blue shook their head. "No, it was terrible. I'm never gonna fly again."

 _"Never?"_ Orange said.

"Not ever."

"It's okay not to fly," Grit said. "I never learned to fly."

The youngsters giggled nervously.

"You're a grounder," Rock said. "Because you don't have wings."

"Yeah. I'm a grounder from Praxus. Do you know where that is?"

Orange said, "Outside Vos?"

"Yeah, it's way far away. And there are lots of grounders there. More grounders than jets."

They digested this fact as Grit opened up a brochure and pointed out pictures of Praxus. He didn't mention that they were also pictures of protests and rallies. They were a bit young for all that.

"Oh," Blue said suddenly. "Praxus. Are Praxians from Praxus?"

"Yeah—"

"So you _are_ the Praxian!" Orange exclaimed. She held up the crumbled piece of holopaper. "This is for you."

"For me?" Grit stared at it in confusion. "What is it?"

"We don't know. A grown-up said if we took it to you, you'd give us an energon cube for it," Foot said. "He said you were a Praxian grounder, but we weren't sure what that meant—"

"What did this grown up look like?" Grit said.

"Red and really shiny," Rock said. "I think his name is Million."

"I don't think that's right. But anyway," Orange turned her attention back to Grit, "you can have it if you give us energon."

"You kids drive a hard bargain." Grit pulled out his cred stick and came back with a small, plain cube of energon—the cheapest item in the plaza.

He set it on the folding table. The newsparks looked at it.

"It's not flavored," said Double Orange.

"Or hot," complained Foot.

"It's all I can afford. But if you don't want it I'll have it and you can eat the letter." Grit slowly reached for the cube.

"We want it! We want it! Here!" Orange pushed the letter to him and grabbed the cube.

"Thanks." He unfolded the holopaper while the newsparks passed the cube around.

Vermillion's handwriting was so filled with loops and curves that Grit had trouble reading it. His language also stepped up a notch in writing compared to the way he talked.

 _I regret that I can't drop by as planned to help you with research for your_ _fictional novel_ _but an unexpected opportunity has arisen. I'll be busy until the afternoon, I'm not sure of the exact time._ _Please send word back with these newsparks_

 _Actually these newsparks don't seem very reliable, so don't send word back with them. I'll be over at the main flight field in the middle of the park, just come by and give me a thumbs up if you want to meet later. (Also you can see me fly.)_

 _\- V_

"What does it say?" Double Orange asked.

"Says to go to the park. To the flight field." Grit started packing up his brochures. He'd leave the table where it was, for now.

"Oh, I know where that is," Orange said. "That's where they have flying lessons. I'll show you the way—for another energon cube."

"Thanks kid, but I think I can find my own way." Newsparks were cute, but they were always hungry. It made them devious.

"Oh well, if you need anything else . . ."

Grit paused in the action of packing up. "There is one thing I'd like to know." He looked over at the newspark fiddling with a pen. "Why are you called Foot?"

"Well . . ." Foot chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pen. "I don't actually remember."

Grit exhaled and gently closed his case. You couldn't expect too much from newsparks.


	8. Chapter 8

Orange and her friends trailed after Grit, darting in and out of his periphery like a flock of cyber-sparrows. Once in a while Rock paused to point out a site of interest.

"This is the park bench that got replaced because we broke it. And over there is a big tree where Double Orange got stuck and we didn't know what to do."

"Very interesting. Am I going the right way?"

Rock gave the deep, ignorant shrug of someone who had not been paid for their knowledge.

Grit snorted and kept walking. He didn't have the credits to waste.

Unperturbed, Rock galloped away to rejoin his friends, who were busy tipping over a rubbish bin and licking congealed energon from the cubes within it.

Oh well, Grit could figure this out without the newsparks. 'The middle of the park,' Vermillion had written. Easy. He just had to keep heading inward . . .

A yelp distracted him from his thoughts. Grit looked over to find Double Orange licking a cut on his servo.

"What happened?" Grit asked.

"One of the cubes was broken." Foot shook his head slowly in judgement. "People shouldn't be allowed to throw _sharp_ stuff in the trash."

Blue nuzzled Double Orange and tried to give the wound a sympathetic lick, but injured youngster screeched and slapped them away. "Don't, it _hurts!"_

Grit studied the cut from afar. Didn't look deep, wasn't bleeding much. The kid would be fine. But it did give him an idea, one that would delete two errors with one click, as the saying went.

"Y'know that red mech who gave you the message? He's a medic. He could fix you right up."

"Nuh _uh,_ don't do it, Doubles. Remember that time I had a really bad cough? A coupla medics caught me and nearly _choked_ me with pills. Medics are _bad,"_ Rock said, shaking his head.

Blue made a dubious sound. "I only remember one pill. And your cough went away right after that."

"My friend won't hurt you. And he has energon," Grit said. "You want to meet him?"

Double Orange looked unsure, but his friends had no such qualms. Even Rock perked up.

"Yeah, energon! You want energon, right, Doubles?"

The diminutive newspark nodded—slowly at first, then faster and faster.

"You'll get it," Grit promised. "Just show me where the air field is."

* * *

Grit had some theories on why Vermillion had arranged a meeting deep in the park instead of their usual place in the plaza.

His first thought, and biggest concern, was that they'd caught some unwanted attention. If a teacher had noticed how often Vermillion lingered at Grit's table or wondered where he disappeared to, that was bad. Dangerous for both of them.

Grit's second thought was that Vermillion might have chosen the park so he could fool around with a stranger in the bushes while he waited. 'An unexpected opportunity has arisen.' Yeah, Grit wouldn't be surprised to find the 'opportunity' was a broad pair of wings and a rising charge . . .

"Here's the air field," Orange announced as the footpath opened up on well-manicured field of interlaced steel and copper, lying at the foot of a rolling slope.

Grit's attention wasn't on the landscape, though, but on the Seekers scattered across it. They were everywhere, lounging in the sun, laughing with each other, and passing cubes of energon around. Distantly, he could see a small set of bleachers, also beset with jets.

And there was the medical caste insignia, stamped on every wing.

If Vermillion _had_ setup a romantic rendezvous, he'd invited the whole school.

. . . Grit wouldn't put it past him.

"Lookit all of 'em," Rock mumbled indistinctly, gnawing at the craggy black chitin on his wrist. He broke off a piece with a crack and rolled it around in his mouth, sucking it like an energon candy. "I still think they're baaad news."

"Really?" Double Orange said. He was perched on Blue's massive shoulders, peeking over their helm.

"Rock is just being silly. Anyway, we can protect you." Orange started down the slope.

"Wait a second." Grit hurried around in front of the crowd of newsparks and held up his hands. All he needed was this bunch loudly talking about how Vermillion had given them a message to deliver to a Praxian. _"I'll_ find him and bring him to you. Okay?"

Orange picked at rocky bit of casing on her arm as she thought about it. "Okay."

"Great." Grit started towards the gathering of medics, sticking close to the treeline to avoid unwanted stares. Hopefully Vermillion had enough sense to stay on the edge of the crowd. Grit paused at the bottom of the slope, deep in the shade of a binary-beech. His optics roamed over a sea of wings, looking for a narrow red pair trimmed in white.

A clatter of metal sounded behind him; jerking around, he saw the newsparks galumphing down the hill. A few nearby Seekers, who'd been sunning themselves, rolled onto their sides to watch.

"We decided to come after all," Orange announced.

"I see that." Grit wondered why he'd expected a newspark to listen.

One of the closest medical students, a green bot who was young enough to still have a faint speckling of chitin across his own plating, pointed at the newsparks and leaned to whisper something to an equally young, purple-winged femme. They both snickered. Great.

"Listen, newsparks—" Grit started. But the newsparks were doing what they did best: whatever they wanted.

"Where's the energon?" Blue asked.

"Doubles will get it for us," said Rock, whose fear of medics was apparently not as deeply ingrained as his love of food. Double Orange didn't reply; he was biting at his wrist plating again, his optics darting nervously towards the crowd of medics. Grit could sympathize.

"Right." Orange nodded. "Once your friend sees Double Orange—"

"Please don't mention my friend right now, okay?"

"—we'll get fed." She grabbed Double Orange by the hand, perhaps as a gesture of comfort towards the smaller bot, perhaps with intent to lead him forward. Either way, she grabbed the hand with the cut on it; Double Orange let out a pained squeal. Orange dropped his servo as though it was red-hot.

"Hey, hey, it's all right, kiddo—" said Grit.

He took a step closer, then realized his mistake as Double Orange's shrill wail rose in volume.

"I don't wanna be here! What if Rock's right? What if there's PILLS?"

Grit backed away, making shushing motions. More medics glanced in their direction, and when they saw Grit in proximity with the crying youngster their glances became narrowed stares. The young students with the spotty faces whispered back and forth again, their optics wide, before they jumped up and beelined away.

And Vermillion, damn him, was still nowhere in sight.

Grit dragged a hand down his face, seriously considering turning tail; when he looked again, it was too late. The young students were scurrying back, leading a white-plated mech whose teal faceplate matched the stripes bordering his wings. Streaks of silver gleamed across his arms and face, giving the impression of some fashionable decoration; closer inspection revealed them to be long-healed scars. He waved the students away as he drew up on Grit and the newsparks.

"Is everything all right here?" His voice was not threatening but certainly authoritative as he took in the situation. The newsparks pulled together as they studied the newcomer, and Double Orange cried harder than ever.

The white-and-teal bot's expression softened. "Don't be afraid, fledgelings. I'm Professor Safeguard; what are you called?"

"I'm Orange," Orange said, deciding the new adult wasn't a threat. And then, getting right to the point: "We want energon."

"Well, _you_ seem to be fine." Safeguard gave a smile that made the deep split in his lip more evident. His crouched to get on Double Orange's level. "And what about you? Tell me what's alarmed you; I promise I'll take care of it." His eyes flitted towards Grit just for an instant, hard as steel.

"He's just worried. He's fine," Grit said hurriedly. "Er, almost fine. His hand got cut up. I heard there were medics around so—"

"He said you'd have food," Orange said. "And if you don't, then that makes him a _liar."_ She gave Grit a stern look.

"I don't want a _pill,"_ Double Orange wailed.

"I see. I see. I think I understand the situation now." Safeguard straightened, his wings relaxing. "As it happens, I do have some treats on hand."

The newsparks perked up as he pulled a small box (decorated with anthropomorphic, dancing energon goodies) out of his subspace, and Double Orange even stopped crying.

"Yessss!" Rock pumped his fist in the air.

"We _all_ get some, right?" Blue asked, drooling.

"Of course, but let's take a look at your friend's hand first." Safeguard put the box back in sub-space (thus thwarting Foot, who'd been slowly leaning in to grab it). He smiled at Double Orange. "What's your name?"

Double Orange quailed, threw himself onto the ground, and curled up in a ball, hiding his face behind his arms.

"He's Double Orange," Blue said.

"And he's being a _baby,"_ Orange said, giving Double a look of combined scorn and embarrassment. "A rocky boulder _bantling._ Honestly."

"Ah." Safeguard tapped his chin as he looked at Orange. "I can see you're older than he is. Oldest of the group?"

Orange's black-encrusted wings rose up and her chest puffed out. "Yeah! I'm the leader."

"I thought so. It's difficult, isn't it? Having to look out for the younger ones. Having to keep them safe. They don't understand the world quite yet. Sometimes they don't notice danger or don't know how to act properly."

Orange nodded, nibbling her finger.

Safeguard sat back on his pedes, letting his forearms rest on his knees. "I know the feeling. But they'll understand someday. They'll learn from watching you. You're doing a great job."

"Mm," Orange said around her finger. "Mmhm, mmhm, mmhm." Dropping into a squat, she pet Double's back in short, clumsy strokes. "Hey, you can look. He's all right. He doesn't even _have_ any pills."

"Promise?" came the muffled reply.

"Yeah. He forgot them. C'mon, stand up."

Double Orange slowly uncurled and let Orange help him to his feet. Staring at the ground, he lifted his injured hand, palm out, for Safeguard's inspection. His plating rattled a little as the medic drew closer and examined the cut, but otherwise he didn't move.

"Well, I'm glad you came to me," Safeguard said. "This isn't deep, but it could easily have become infected."

"With rust? We've seen rust before," Rock boasted.

"Exactly." Safeguard produced a mysterious brown bottle and poured a bit of liquid onto a soft bandage.

"It smells funny," Double Orange said.

"It's an antiseptic. A virus-killer. Now I need you to grip your arm with your hand, all right? No, no, not the injured hand, the other one. That's good. Hold tight."

Safeguard pressed the bandage onto Double Orange's palm, securing it with darting fingers. As soon as he felt the sting of the antiseptic, Double Orange let out his loudest wail yet. The fingers of his other hand clenched on his arm for a moment before lashing out at Safeguard in a clumsy punch that glanced harmlessly off white plating.

The rest of the cohort was not reacting any better; they bristled. Rock, growling, tried to sink his teeth into Safeguard's shoulder, but the medic deftly sidestepped at the last moment. He freed Double Orange, who was pulling away so hard he knocked back into Foot.

"I'm sorry; it hurt a little, didn't it? But you were very brave. Do you still want an energon goodie?" Safeguard took out the box.

Double Orange wiped his optics as his friends, confused, tried to parse whether Safeguard was still The Enemy. The little orange bot finally nodded. "I want a goodie. I want . . . two?" he dared.

Safeguard closed his eyes tight, his mouth twitching; Grit got the impression he was trying not to laugh. "That sounds reasonable. One each for your friends, two for you." He passed them out. "You can take the bandage off in three days. Don't let him remove it before then, okay Orange?"

"Okay . . ." She gave him a suspicious glance, but relaxed after examining the soft mesh of the bandage.

And without a word of thanks or a backwards glance, the newsparks turned as one and galloped up the hill.

Safeguard chuckled, then glanced back at Grit, who was doing his best to creep away. "No, wait, please. I believe I owe you an apology."

It was better than the medic believing he owed Grit a punch in the face, which had been his concern. But he wasn't sure the wash of embarrassment through his circuits was much better.

"Nah, you don't owe me nothin'. A kid squalling . . . No surprise you gave me the stink eye."

"'Stink eye,'" Safeguard repeated in a murmur. "Well, nevertheless, thank you for directing that youngling to us. You're from . . . Helex?"

"Praxus."

"Ah, yes." He put an elegant hand to his chest, tipping his head forward. "I'm Safeguard."

"Grit." He shifted from one foot to another. "So . . . you having a picnic? You medics?"

"More or less. The term just ended so we can finally relax. There's going to be a little aerial show later, I understand."

"That sounds nice." Grit wasn't _staring_ at the heavy scars down Safeguard's face—that was rude, and in Grit's usual social circles "rude" could get you beat up—but they were unavoidably in his line of sight. "You were really good with those kids."

"Well, I have some experience." Safeguard drew a finger down his face and winked. "I used to work in a crèche."

"A what?"

"A . . ." Safeguard's lips pursed, searching for a synonym. "Care facility? Newspark care center?"

"A _newspark_ did that to you?"

"Not just one." Safeguard made a little gesture towards the crowd. "Come, I'll tell you about it. I really feel I owe you a cube."

Grit pushed down his pride. "Sure."

Sideways looks followed him, but the gentle weight of Safeguard's fingers on his arm seemed to act as a buffer; no one stopped him and no one commented. Safeguard stepped up to a table, exchanged pleasantries with a black Seeker who was ladling out drinks, and came away with two cubes.

"I think there's still some room in the bleachers," Safeguard said, nodding to a small set overlooking a long, smooth stretch of runway.

"Great."

"They leave them for the professors, generally," the white-and-teal jet said as they climbed up. "Not a _rule_ per se, more of a perk."

"Great," Grit repeated, not listening. A familiar flash of red had just caught his eye.

There, cross-legged beneath a tree, was Vermillion, reclining against the chest of one Seeker while his legs tangled with those of another. A third jet rubbed polish over his chassis in slow, lazy circles.

Vermillion stretched and rolled over without opening his eyes, melting into a new position. Not a care in the world.


	9. Chapter 9

Grit's first reaction was mild exasperation. It figured. It just figured.

He watched as Vermillion propped himself up to say something to the sky blue Seeker who—wait a minute. He recognized that bot. It was the one he'd mentally nicknamed Skyguy.

The one who'd stomped over with his little gang to knock over his table.

Made sense, Grit thought as he watched Skyguy and Vermillion whisper together, then smirk at some passing classmate. It'd been more than a week, so the high-class brats were out of the detention. And of course flirty, faithless Vermillion would happily fall right back into their orbit. They were his kind and he knew it.

"Are you all right?" Safeguard said.

Grit jerked upright from his forward lean, forcing his attention back to the white and teal medic. "Yeah, sure. Just, uh, waiting for the air show. Can't wait."

"Oh, I see." Safeguard's expression of concern continued to linger. "I hope you don't feel self-conscious, that wasn't my intent. No one will take offense if I entertain a guest."

"I see." He pushed down the desire to ask if the medics would have 'taken offense' if a grubby grounder had climbed up here on his own. "No worries, I'm fine."

"Good." Safeguard seemed satisfied with his response. "And, yes, the air show will be a real treat! It's just the students, mind you, not professional stunt trines. But I think you'll find them more than equal to any performance you might see in Praxus."

"Yep, I'm sure I will." He snuck another glance at Vermillion, who was now doodling swirly patterns on Skyguy's leg with a silver pen. He paused in mid-stroke to glare at something. Grit followed his gaze and spotted Lunarwing by the drinks table, glaring back.

Grit resisted the urge to roll his optics and refocused on Safeguard, who was sprinkling some kind of additive into his cube.

"Silver shavings?" the medic offered.

"Sure. Thanks." Grit held out his cube.

Part of him wanted to leave, but he'd already blurted out that he wanted to see this air ballet, or whatever it was. Stupid. At least he was getting free grub out of this. He made a conscious effort not to look at Vermillion again, instead taking another glance at Safeguard's marred faceplate. "So you were gonna tell me how you earned those stripes."

"Oh yes. I hope you'll forgive me if the tale isn't as exciting as you expect, though."

The white-and-teal bot drew a finger down the deep scar down his face, the one that split his lip. "A newspark that got upset when we wouldn't let him into the tetra-panther exhibit at the zoo."

He gestured towards a half-circle of indents on his left shoulder. "A very young shuttle who became extremely upset when we offered her energon in a green cube rather than a blue cube."

He patted his knee-joint. "This got fixed up after I was transferred, but I used to have a chunk out of my knee actuator. Very painful. That one, I recall, was from a newspark a bit smaller than the mini-bot I treated today—"

"You have mini-bots at these centers?" Grit interrupted.

"All frame types. And even the smallest can have a hefty bite! In this case the little fellow wanted a toy that was on a shelf he couldn't reach. Instead of telling anyone, he lashed out." He indicated half a dozen other silver mars on his plating with one sweeping gesture. "And so on and so on."

"Primus," Grit said. "I know newsparks can be glitches, but . . ."

"They're just young." Safeguard smiled, his blunt-tipped wings lifting in a shrug. "It's a hard transition, going from a wild, independent life to one that feels, I'm sure, very confined and constrained. But there are many beautiful moments too. Their pride when they learn to land without tumbling down the runway. The look of wonder when they realize they'll always have a warm bed, safe from acid rain. The silly little presents they give you, if they like you. Nuts and bolts and scraps of fabric."

"Still," Grit said, eyeing his scarred chassis. "What are you supposed to do when they get rowdy? Just let 'em gnaw on you?"

"If you can figure out why they're acting out, you can usually calm them down. That's one of our goals, to teach them appropriate social behavior. Don't punch someone because they have a cube of energon and you don't, and so on."

"Where I grew up, you learned not to do that 'cause the other bot would punch right back. It was a real good lesson."

Safeguard hummed. "Some bots might learn from that. Others might learn to punch harder next time. And if the bot they punched was smaller, maybe they'd learn nothing at all."

Grit didn't have an answer for that, so he changed the subject. "How often do you work in your . . . crèche center?"

Safeguard paused. "I don't, anymore. That's all in the past. They moved me to the medical caste 23 decavorns ago."

"As a reward? They felt like you'd been chewed on long enough?"

"Nothing so personal. Vos overhauled its caste taxonomy. One day my function was 'caretaker' and the next it was 'medic.' It was . . . a surprise."

"Yeah?" Grit vaguely remembered reading about that from the smuggled library books Vermillion had provided him. The lower castes hadn't been altered much, so he'd merely skimmed. "And that was a step up, right?"

"Yes, this job is more prestigious, better paid . . . Safer." Safeguard fell silent, his optics gazing into the distance, or maybe the past. "The medics were very kind. _They_ hadn't asked to have a full-grown bot who barely knew first aid dumped on them. Even now, I only teach the introductory classes. Yes; very kind. Once in a while one of them offers to sand away my scars and 'make me look presentable'. But I can't seem to let go of that last little bit of the past."

Grit gazed into his cube, unsure how to respond to the melancholy in the jet's voice.

"Lemme get you a refill," he said gruffly, deciding avoidance was the best option.

He grabbed both cubes and made his way down to the refreshment stand. The black Seeker serving the drinks ladled out more energon without comment.

Grit spared Vermillion a glance. The red Seeker's optics were shut tight as one of his friends drew around them with the silver pen. The elaborate patterns looked suspiciously similar to the kind that the well-polished supermodels wore in one of he videos Grit had given him.

"They weren't supposed to be make-up tutorials," Grit muttered as he heaved up the bleachers, ignoring the curious glances of the various teachers clustered in the stands.

His pede-steps slowed, creaking as he mounted the final steps. A mech had settled next to Safeguard, swiveled towards him as they conversed. Grit only had a view of his wings and an occasional flash of his hands as he gesticulated, but he thought he recognized the purplish-maroon of his paint. Professor Airwave.

He began to ease himself backwards, downwards, but Safeguard caught sight of him, leaned out slightly to give him an encouraging smile, and made a little gesture with his hand to summon him over.

Fleeing would bring him more attention than staying. Grit shuffled over and sat down, as quietly as possible, leaving a significant space between his seat and Airwave's.

"—just saying you could have a _word_ with Stethosong, Safeguard, she respects your opinion."

"I don't like interfering with other teachers," Safeguard said mildly. "And I don't really know anything about the situation." He glanced past Airwave, giving Grit an apologetic grimace, which Grit shrugged off and Airwave, wrapped up in his own concerns, didn't even notice.

"I know you don't know about it. That's why I'm telling you. She's being unreasonable. Beyond unreasonable! And we all know why, don't we." He aimed a scornful sneer at some bot in the bleachers below. "You _care_ about the students, Safeguard, I know you do. You aren't going to let her ruin a bot's future for no reason."

"I don't think failing a single class is going to ruin anyone—"

"Oh Safeguard." Airwave leaned forward, cupping the white bot's cheek. "Still so innocent after all these vorns. I hope you never change."

"Thank you." Safeguard leaned back until Airwave was forced to drop his hand. "As I was saying, if I were you I'd be more concerned with _why_ he's failing. Maybe something's bothering him. Have you tried talking to him?"

"Of course, we chat almost every day. He's perfectly normal, perfectly fine. A bit unfocused lately, but who isn't towards the end of the term?"

"Would you like me to talk to him?"

"What I _want_ is for you to talk some sense into Stethosong. She's clearly biased."

Safeguard gave a little hum under his breath. "You graded Lunarwing very harshly last term. I remember her bringing it up with the dean."

Grit didn't have a view of Airwave's face, he saw the way his wings slowly rose, the movement tight. "I was doing that brat a favor. Taking Advanced Degenerative Joint Diseases when he could barely _name_ the joints—what did he expect?"

Safeguard pulled in a deep vent and closed his optics for a moment. "But it might have been kinder to let him know he was out of his depth at the _beginning_ of the term, so he could withdraw."

"The world isn't a kind place, Safeguard. Better they learn that now. Anyway," Airwave said petulantly, "I didn't _fail_ him."

"Let's discuss this later," Safeguard said firmly. "I want to introduce you to my guest."

He smiled past Airwave, who finally turned. His optics flashed with confusion as he saw the grounder.

"Oh, it's you. Grind, wasn't it?"

"Grit."

"Ah yes. Well, well. Here you are." Airwave cast a quizzical glance over his shoulder, which Safeguard returned, though for a different reason.

"I didn't realize you two had met."

"Yes, in the plaza. A few students . . . helped Grit here pick up some of his possessions."

 _After they knocked 'em over,_ Grit thought, but all he said was "Yep. Real helpful."

"How nice! I was telling him the air show was sure to be a highlight of his vacation."

Airwave gave Grit a look. "His vacation. Yes."

"Airwave's—ah, thank you," Safeguard said, as Grit stretched past the maroon jet to hand over an energon cube. "Airwave's protégé will be flying in the show. He's very good."

"He's an absolute _vision_ in the air!" Airwave's wings flared out with a proud flourish that almost hit Grit and actually did knock against Safeguard's tail fins. "You won't be able to take your eyes off him!"

Safeguard smiled indulgently. "There are also other talented students in the show, so I hope you do take your eyes off him at some point."

"Oh yes, our little profession isn't short on talent," Airwave said, waving a hand. "But Vermillion is really the whole package."

Grit's tank felt uncomfortably tight in his chassis, but that was nothing compared to the way he felt when Airwave, with a sudden, thoughtful look, followed up with:

"But you've met him already, haven't you?"

"Yeah? He's one of the red ones, huh?" Grit put on a look of profound ignorance as he pointed at a garish red-and-green student. "That one?"

"Of course not that eyesore!" Airwave's wings twitched, as offended as his tone. "He's over _there,_ by that tree."

"Oh yeah, I kinda remember him."

"You 'kinda remember' him." Airwave clasped his elegant talons over his spark in mock pain. "Well, I certainly hope he makes more of an impression on the judges than he did on you."

"What judges?" asked Grit.

"I keep forgetting how . . . different . . . all of this must be compared to Praxus." Airwave lowered his voice a little. "They're in the very top row. Look, if you like, but don't stare."

Grit nodded in understanding, taking a casual glance over his shoulder. There was no question who Airwave meant. Three well-heeled bots were quietly conversing with each other, their wings trimmed in gold-plate. Not only was the top row otherwise empty, but so were the four rows immediately below them.

"Are they nobles?" Grit asked the medics.

Safeguard shook his head and Airwave gave a short, shocked stutter of a laugh. "Nobles! You'll know a noble if you see one, they look like they'll blow away in a strong breeze. No, those are servants."

"But you're right in a way, Grit. The idea is that they're choosing the winners in the stead of their masters—who _are_ minor nobles. But it's a little much to call them _judges,"_ Safeguard said. "It's just a fun little contest. The winners get a little ribbon. It doesn't mean anything."

"You're so naive," Airwave said flatly. "Winning a trinket is hardly the point."

Safeguard's expression fell. "I'm sorry, Airwave. I know it's an old tradition. I didn't mean to offend you."

"As though you could offend someone even if you tried." Airwave patted his arm. "We all want what's best for the students. Just remember, not all of us are dealing with the ones who just cracked out of their chitin."

He turned towards Grit. "Speaking of students, I need to speak with Vermillion. Come along, I'll introduce you, since he made so little of an impression."

Grit couldn't see any way out of it. "Sure," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Airwave paused when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"So, how did you meet Safeguard?" he asked casually, his optics fixed on Grit in a side-eye.

Grit shrugged. "Found an injured newspark and brought 'im here. Some of your kids called Safeguard over."

Airwave's shoulders relaxed. "I see. No wonder you're in his good graces."

"Yeah, he's kind of a specialist, huh? He told me about his old job. Sounds like he misses it."

"Ah yes, his old job." Airwave's voice became thoughtful. "It was very silly that they changed the standards to focus so much on wings." His own wings—narrow but blunt-tipped—shifted slowly.

Grit's optic ridges rose in surprise. _"You_ think it's silly?"

"Does that really surprise you? The point of functionism is to match form to function. And hands are more important to medics than wings." He lifted his own servos for emphasis, spreading his sharp, single-jointed fingers. "But such is life. Safeguard has our youngest to look after now. It's almost the same thing."

"I don't think he'd agree."

"Well, it's all we can offer him. If it were up to us, he could go wherever he wanted; we're all very fond of him." He leaned in, his optics glinting as his mouth thinned. "And if _you_ care about him even a smidge, leave him out of your little club. You'll only bring trouble to his doorstep."

"I've got permits—"

"Yes, you have permits. You're perfectly legal. And it would be perfectly legal for the Vosian council to remove a 'subversive rabblerouser' from a post where he was teaching impressionable newsparks. Don't you _dare_ break Safeguard's spark like that."

The medic straightened and looked away, flustered at the intensity of his outburst. But Grit had felt a grudging respect for him as his flutey, cultured voice snapped and growled in his audial.

"I haven't even mentioned the Decepticon cause to him," he said, neglecting to say that he'd certainly thought about it.

"Good, good. That's settled then." Airwave took a deep vent, then made an exaggerated show of looking around . . . being careful not to look in the direction where, Grit knew, a certain red Seeker was relaxing with his friends. "I was _so_ hoping to introduce you to Vermillion but I'm really not sure where he is at the moment—"

Before he could finish, a deep green jet decorated with gleaming metallic inlays roared overhead, looping around the field once before landing and transforming. He was a sleek Seeker with dagger-like wings, narrow and sharp, but his expression was friendly. The silver ornaments adorning his wingtips jingled as he walked towards the bleachers, smiling. Several of the teachers exclaimed to each other and crowded forward to meet him.

"Is that another 'judge' for the air show?" Grit asked Airwave, who was looking on with an unreadable expression. "Or a participant?"

"Neither. His name is I.V.; he was a student here once. These days he's just another medic."

"Just another medic?" Now that Grit was looking for it, he did see the medical insignia on I.V.'s well-polished wings. But he could also see the stripes framing his wings were not merely paint, but thin overlays of platinum and gold. "Seems fancier than the rest of you."

"He got lucky. Some do." Airwave's smile twisted at the corner.

Studying the little reunion, Grit was surprised to see a bot he recognized—Lunarwing. The young silver-blue jet was listening more than talking, leaving the conversation to I.V. and the teachers—a gabble of it's-been-too-longs and how-have-you-beens. As Grit watched, a Seeker near Lunarwing (primarily grey, wide blue wings) separated herself from the crowd.

Wait—was she coming towards _them?_

"Oh Primus," Airwave muttered under his breath.

 _"There_ you are, Airwave!" the grey jet said. "I heard you wanted a word with me."

"Stethosong." Airwave said her name a touch bitterly. "Yes, but later. I'm showing Safeguard's guest around."

"I wondered." Stethosong gave Grit a smile that he interpreted as polite, but uninterested. Fine by him. He nodded in greeting.

Airwave edged sideways to pass the other medic, steering Grit with a hand on his shoulder. "I hate to hurry away, Stethosong, but you know how it is—"

"Wait a moment." Stethosong's hand landed on Grit's other shoulder, her fingertips pricking at his chassis. "I can't let a guest leave empty-handed."

On her palm she balanced a small, elaborately carved onyx box, selectively gilded to bring out the patterns of vines and mechanimals. With a click she opened the gold latch, revealing a selection of energon treats, each nestled in a pretty ruffled wrapper. Stethosong plucked one out and dropped it into Grit's hand.

"Thanks." Grit looked down at the energon treat in his palm. Like the box, it was gilded.

"And one for you, Airwave?"

"No, no." Airwave's smile came out a grimace. "I wouldn't want to deprive you."

"No need to show restraint. I.V. brought me _several_ boxes. So nice when a student remembers their roots. Not all of them do. You do remember I.V., don't you?"

"I remember," Airwave sniffed. "I don't think he wrote a single paper with properly cited footnotes."

"And yet he did very well for himself. I always knew he would. I would call him over to meet you," she said to Grit (whose name she still had not asked), "but he's busy giving some tips to another up-and-comer. Enjoy your stay in Vos."

"Okay." Grit watched as she turned and melded back into the crowd. He put the treat in his subspace.

"Hmph! _Some bots."_ Airwave stared daggers at her retreating back. His wings lifted and dropped with a shudder, as though he was shrugging off something unpleasant. "Well! She may be too pompous to introduce you to _her_ student, but rest assured not all medics are so rude." He lifted his wrist, speaking into his comm. "Vermillion—"

Ah frag. "Actually it's okay if he's busy—"

Airwave ignored him. "Vermillion, come over to the refreshment table, there's someone here who'd like to meet you."

 _I never said I wanted to meet him,_ Grit mentally griped, watching the distant red jet split off from his friends and start over.

Halfway there, Vermillion missed a step, stood stockstill for a moment, and resumed his path with a slower gait.

Airwave tapped his pede. "Hurry up, we don't have all day—" He blinked in surprise as the red Seeker finally drew up to them. "What did you do to your face?"

It was probably for the best that the heavy silver make-up around Vermillion's optics pulled attention away from his nervous smile.

"It's a new fashion. I saw it in a holovid." Vermillion's glance flitted from Airwave to Grit. But the Seeker pulled himself together enough to turn his full focus on Airwave, offering a coy smile. "Do you like it?"

"Hmm." Airwave gripped Vermillion's chin and tilted his head down, the better to scrutinize the slightly taller and much sleeker red jet.

Vermillion yielded easily to the guidance of his fingers, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Only when Airwave continued to study him, with the air of a market bot looking over a nicrosil fruit for bruises, did his expression turned serious.

"No good? Should I wipe it off?"

Airwave let go of him. "Yes."

Grit expected a pout, an argument, maybe an outright refusal. But Vermillion immediately pulled out a polishing cloth and began scrubbing the silver away, like it had never been. Grit tried to understand his expression, visible between swipes of the cloth. Not eager, not resentful either. Matter-of-fact. Unquestioning.

Grit had always thought of cosmetics as a way for too-rich fools to waste money, but something possessed him to say, "I thought it looked pretty good."

"It was _striking,_ certainly." Airwave looked at Grit, but patted Vermillion's arm. "It might do at a party, if it were the right kind. But this isn't the time or place to take chances. Ah, but I haven't introduced you formally, have I? Grit, this is my student, Vermillion. Of course you met before, in the plaza, didn't you? Over that unfortunate . . . _incident_ with the table."

"Which I'm very sorry about," Vermillion chipped in, giving Grit an overly bright smile.

"'S okay."

"It wasn't okay, it was unbecoming of a medic," Airwave said, "but you learned a valuable lesson, didn't you, Vermillion? Grit has never seen an air show so you can make it up to him by putting in your best effort. Really give him something to write home about."

"Sure. But I would have done my best anyway." Vermillion divided a cocky smile between Grit and Airwave, with just a hint of pre-performance jitters underneath. "I'm going to ace this."

"Yes, you are," Airwave smiled. "But don't get overconfident. What are the keys to a successful flight?"

"Fly in the moment," Vermillion recited. "Always know which way's up. Stay energized. Know your competition."

"Good. Now let's find someplace to sit while we wait for your cue." Airwave's optics moved to Grit. "You're free to join us of course."

It was obviously an invitation that Grit was meant to turn down, but he still had to signal to Vermillion that they were going to meet later. If he could ever get the kid out from Airwave's eyes. "Yeah, sure."

If the answer made Airwave unhappy, he kept it to himself. Maybe he just wanted to keep Grit away from Safeguard. "Very well. Let's find a spot with a good view."

They climbed high in the bleachers (but not as high as Safeguard, whom Grit awkwardly waved to). As Airwave leaned in to address Vermillion, it became clear that 'the view' that really mattered was those of the other performers.

The performers, Grit gathered, all memorized the same routine. Three randomly selected bots (of course three, Vos was obsessed with threes) flew at a time.

To Grit the whole ordeal sounded mildly boring, but Airwave approached the event like a manager prepping a gladiator for battle. Vermillion, balancing his thruster on his knee the better to polish it, listened attentively.

"Silverweld has good speed," Airwave was saying, "but if you can fluster him he'll botch his landing; easy meat. Needlenose, though, is a steady flyer . . . and his colors complement your own. Stay on his shoulder, if you can, and wait. He's lightweight so you may be able to knock him off-balance with an updraft. Viralbane relies overly much on her instrument panel—"

Grit rested his chin on his hand, tuning out the secondhand advice. The 'dirty fighting' element did add a little excitement, which was needed if this was really going to be a bunch of jets repeating the exact same loops. But if they were going that far, why not _actually_ fight? His mind wandered to gladitorial fights he'd seen. The crunch of punches denting plating, bots wrenching at arms and visors, clawing at optics.

Take that and put it in mid-air and _that_ would be worth writing home about. Not 'subtly create an airdraft that causes the competition to wobble for a second.'

"I'm gonna grab more energon," Grit said; Vermillion nodded absently, not pulling his optics from his fellow students below.

As he reached the end of the row, a _thunk_ made Grit look back. Vermillion had pushed his thruster off his lap and was leaning forward until his elbows resting on his knees. He stared down the bleachers with bright, fervent eyes. Airwave, nestled beside him, didn't follow his gaze but kept his attention wholly on Vermillion, fingers firm on his shoulders, lips curved as they lined up with his audial.

Airwave was shorter than his student. But not just then.

He wasn't a manager conferring with a gladiator. He was a trainer of pit-hounds, whipping his favorite into a savage passion, about to release and step back. Such beasts never bit their masters, only their own kind.

Grit made his way down the stairs, slowly. He lingered uncertainly at the bottom.

 _This was a waste of time,_ he told himself.

He hunched his shoulders and marched away, not letting himself look back.


End file.
